Before the whirlwind of my college freshman year, I never considered my health a priority. In fact, I never held it in high regard throughout the year, either. Until one fateful day in March when I ended up with a sprained ankle, snot-filled tears, and a life lesson. As all college stories do, this one starts with a boy. Up until that point, the supposed love of my life had worn away what little self-confidence I had. For months leading up to March, I had been enchanted by “I love you’s” and tantalized by the deteriorating comments he sandwiched his love between. Either I needed to hit the gym, I had taken the wrong tone with him, or he was put off by my "promiscuous" behavior. My mind started to replay every insult until I could relive the scenes behind my eyelids. That March day at a party, I confronted him about his cheating. While he left with more alcohol and another girl, I left with a twisted ankle and cried in my bathroom shower hours later. Considering myself shattered China, I continued to demolish the pieces I had left. I drank more, partied, and entertained people I would’ve never interacted with in a million lifetimes. I thought therapy would break my bad habits, but my mind deteriorated the further we got into the school year. I lay awake until the brink of dawn, surviving my finals on a mere three hours of sleep. I took shots just to carry on conversations throughout the day. I told myself I just needed a change of scenery. However, moving home hadn’t cured any ailments. I spent the majority of my time swallowed by my bed covers, silently crying to every tear-jerking song I blasted. The first week, I lost nearly 10 pounds. That was my second wake-up call. I couldn’t build my mental fortitude on an unstable physical foundation. How could I attend these weekly therapy sessions if I barely had the strength to lift myself out of bed? Thus, I made a goal to sharpen my physique through rigorous exercise and an attempt at healthy eating habits. It was actually after one of these exercise escapades that something clicked in my brain. A couple of days ago, I wiped the sweat off my forehead and took a long, hard look in the mirror. A smile crept on the face that had so easily memorized tear-stain patterns and chewed lips. These changes weren’t because a college boy had declared I wasn’t enough for him. They were for me, and I was enough for me. While I may be slowly still battling a war with my own health, I’m proud to realize the change needed and to gain a mantra I’ll carry with me for the rest of my life. At the end of the day, I was the only person who could grab myself by the shoulders and violently shake myself to the harsh realization: there is no one else to take care of you. While yes, I am blessed to be surrounded by a wonderful support system of generous and empathetic friends and family, I was the one crying in my shower that March day. Alone. I was the only one who could get myself out of bed each morning, no matter how hard it seemed. I was the only individual who could put down the Ibuprofen bottle, stare into the mirror, and feel content with myself. By prioritizing each aspect of my health, I found a silver lining: it was me or nothing.

As a second-generation immigrant, my educational journey wasn’t plagued with the typical racial and linguistic barriers. I’d been blessed by parents who attended college. Rather, these barriers were self-imposed. Growing up as a Vietnamese American surrounded by peers who looked nothing like her, I carried the unspoken burden of accepting my conflicting identity. I owed it to my immigrant parents to maintain my culture, despite others’ racist remarks and microaggressions, and to my classmates to transform into an acceptable American persona. I was always one or the other—never both at once. The most vivid example was my family’s interview for the local magazine. As the night settled, the magazine editor asked my mother to describe her upbringing. After a small chuckle, her first words were, "It's pretty boring." She used “boring” to explain escaping her homeland at 12 with scarcely several cents and becoming the first in her family to attend college. However, my father broke into rambles as soon as the editor gave him a prompt. He was excited, proud even, to recount his journey and bravery in a refugee camp. I awkwardly laughed at this duality, later apologizing to the editor for any embarrassing behavior she might've witnessed. She told me there was absolutely nothing to be sorry for. This polarity was a defining trait of my childhood. Once I entered public school, this contention grew beyond tidbits of my personality. Eventually, I began to question my own identity. Was I Vietnamese, like my parents, or American, like my classmates? While my classmates ridiculed my culture at school, my parents demanded why I was no longer fluent in my native tongue. For once, everyone around me shared an opinion. I was an outsider. I started to immerse myself in school. Originally, it was because of pressure from my parents, but eventually, it became a method to distract from the nagging in my brain. In schoolwork, there was no contemplating your identity or questioning your existence. It was only cramming for the next test and asking your friends how they did on the quiz. It was keeping my head down and nodding at every favor asked of me. It was crying myself to sleep because if I didn't pass my next assignment, my mind said something horrible was going to happen to me. It was biting my lips until they bled because the action gave my brain something to concentrate on. Finally, I had become someone—the girl everyone wanted me to be. At some point in middle school, though, I had a revelation. My grandpa's stroke and my best friend's suicide attempt knocked me into reality; their delicate grasp on life made me realize I wasn't living mine. Thus, while I entertained myself with homework, I didn't let it consume me as before. I started to relearn the word no, and I developed a personality that wasn't just a concoction of the people I'd interacted with. I was myself. I no longer hold those goals with so much contempt. I’ve repurposed them into something to strive for—something to solidify a legacy that memorializes their trek to America. As a video game developer, I’ll produce games that speak on societal issues, ones that spark enough conversation to incite real change. With my education, I hope to forge a future where kids no longer have to question who they are. I am both my mother and father. I am the pennies and the refugee camp. I am Vietnamese and American. I am my grandpa and my best friend. I am one large juxtaposition. I am not sorry for who I am.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been obsessed with the mobile game Adventure Escape Mysteries by Haiku Games. Thus, when I had the opportunity to interview the Haiku Games CEO/founder—Andrew Ow—I immediately pounced on the prospect. We talked about all things computer science and video game design. In addition, his humble beginnings at Stanford and starting his own company left me awestruck. As a final note, he encouraged me to pursue my endeavors and capitalize on my creativity. Since then, his words have carved themselves into my mind. Leadership isn’t defined in moments of great strength and prosperity. It’s most vital during debilitating times when persistence is an obsolete concept. By receiving this scholarship, I will continue to exhibit the determination and ingenuity Mr. Ow talked about. As an officer for multiple clubs in my school — including orchestra, UIL, Key Club, Formula Project, and STUCO — I will take my initiative and work ethic to UT Austin. From tutoring a monk to pass his citizenship test to distributing free feminine products throughout my school, my main objective has always been to help my community in any way I can. I’m ecstatic to expand these prospects in college. Considering I won’t receive sufficient financial aid from FAFSA, I will largely be paying for university on my own. In addition, my parents cannot contribute much of their savings to my college expenses since they are still supporting their own parents. Thus, I’m heavily relying on scholarships, such as this bountiful Schmid Memorial scholarship. This endowment will open up new opportunities, like mentorship programs and workshops, that would otherwise be financially unavailable. My dream is to flourish at university, participating in numerous extracurriculars and studying opportunities, without worrying about such a large financial burden. I plan to work during college as well, but I would love to focus more on my academic pursuits and engage myself in the vigorous college lifestyle. I hope to join as many organizations until my insatiable desire to support my campus is fulfilled. From the Asian American Association to Circle K, I will connect with a multitude of communities. With my interest in video game development, this experience will help me craft stories that capture these sensitive topics thoroughly and properly. I want to craft games that speak on societal issues, ones that spark enough conversation to incite real change. Furthermore, once I'm well-established in the industry, I also hope to later expound this valuable information to girls of the next generation. I'll host career camps and mentorship programs to produce a strong community that future women in STEM need. As such, this scholarship will not just assist me during university. These broadened horizons and new life skills will serve me well beyond my academic career, and this all begins with my journey at college. With this generous scholarship, I can be one step closer to achieving my dreams.

Throughout the world, time is the very essence of human nature. With the ticking seconds, each new year that passes brings unspoken leaders of the future. They look to their parents to define their leadership characteristics, the parents before them, and the great-grandparents before them all. These generations comprise cornerstones of our society; however, they have led to great generational divides. As a member of Generation Z, I can attest to the “course of bankruptcy” and “sickness of school loans” that perpetuate poverty. Millennials and Generation Z have even accepted “a sickened tax structure that perpetuates Greed, with a capital G.” Many of these systemic issues are rooted in institutions placed upon society by previous generations. As the internal clock for the Earth winds down, it becomes more apparent and urgent that the United States needs clear intervention. At least, younger generations can create the opportunity for call of duty, created by global warming. Although, it’s left for me to wonder why younger generations must pay the price for the future that previous generations caused. Why must we answer to their forfeits? Oftentimes, I have heard adults and elders alike tell me their age has bestowed wisdom that I could never dream of. I have been told to shut my mouth and let the “responsible” ones handle it. To that I ask, why? Why does age immediately merit responsibility? By the looks of society, previous generations have created an environment of chaos, resentment, and political strife. It is up to the leaders of today and tomorrow to begin truly reworking the community. In this reflection, I can confidently say I am ready to be a part of that challenge. I am ready to proudly represent my generation through charity and philanthropy. I am ready for each and every struggle I must endure for greater prosperity. Most of all, I am ready for my rendezvous with destiny.

Once, a magazine editor asked my mother to describe her upbringing. After a small chuckle, the first words to come out of her mouth were, "Well, it's pretty boring." She used the term "boring" to explain escaping her homeland when she was 12 years old with nothing more than several cents. "Boring" was becoming the first in her family to attend college and even receive a doctorate degree. My father, on the other hand, broke into rambles as soon as the editor gave him a prompt. He was excited—even proud—to recount his journey and bravery in a refugee camp, separated from his mother and sisters for a year. I awkwardly laughed at this duality and later apologized to the editor, my former teacher, for any embarrassing behavior she might've witnessed. She told me there was absolutely nothing to be sorry for. This polarity of my parents' personalities was a defining trait of my childhood. In such a clashing household, there was never a correct answer I could settle on. I found that I was always at odds with myself, and as a human sponge, I unconsciously soaked up all their conflicting characteristics. Once I entered public school, this contention grew further than just tidbits of my personality. Eventually, I began to question my own identity. Was I Vietnamese, like my parents, or American, like my classmates? While my classmates ridiculed my culture at school, my parents demanded why I was no longer fluent in my native tongue. For once, everyone around me shared an opinion. I was an outsider. I started to immerse myself in school. Originally, it was because of pressure from my parents, but eventually, it became a method to distract from the nagging in my brain. In schoolwork, there was no contemplating your identity or questioning your existence. It was only cramming for the next test and asking your friends how they did on the quiz. It was polite smiles and small waves in the hall. It was keeping my head down and nodding at every favor asked of me. It was crying myself to sleep because if I didn't pass my next assignment, my mind said something horrible was going to happen to me. It was biting my lips until they bled because the action gave my brain something to concentrate on. Finally, I had become someone—the girl everyone wanted me to be. Middle school was filled with many memories my brain has blocked out, even until now. What I do remember, however, was my grandpa's stroke and my best friend threatening suicide. Either event could've knocked me into reality, but one was my definitive wake-up call. Their delicate grasp on life made me realize I wasn't living mine. Being a first-generation American student has shaped every portion of my life. I used to view this duality as a curse, but now I realize it is a blessing. I understand how tradition can still outline the framework of my being, but modernity helps perfect what the past couldn't. I developed compassion, sympathy, and gratitude through my experience of growing up Asian-American. Then, I started to focus again on my friendships, one of the few aspects keeping me stable at the time. While I entertained myself with homework, I didn't let it consume me as before. I started to relearn the word no, and I developed a personality that wasn't just a concoction of the people I'd interacted with. I was myself. I am myself. I am both my mother and father. I am the pennies and the refugee camp. I am Vietnamese and American. I am smart and kind, but I am also bold and brave. I am my grandpa, my best friend, and my classmates. I am melancholic and elated. I am one large juxtaposition. And I am not sorry for who I am.

Sitting atop the bustling city and drifting amongst the clouds is a beautiful penthouse in New York City. The top-floor sky house is so far away from ground level that the sounds of traffic match the quiet melody of the crickets I used to hear back home. If I dared, I could reach past the entire glass wall facing the city and grab a piece of atmospheric cotton candy. With the beauty of Barbie magic, my ears do not even pop and my head has not an ounce of dizziness. When you first walk through the front doors, you're greeted with a crystal chandelier draped in glittering diamonds and fairy lights. On your left is an extensive kitchen with marble tops and dark oak cabinets. The titanium fridge holds space for three families' worth of groceries, the double oven can fit six racks of cookies total. My personal chef is busily chopping up lambchop and asparagus for my nightly, 5-star meal. To the right are disconnected, white steps protruding from the wall, leading up to the bedroom and bathroom. When you walk up the stairs, you see a bed submerged in the dark oak ground with fairy lights dancing around the edges. Polaroids from distant, beautiful memories coat the walls like vines. Further to your right is a double doorway to the master bathroom. Inside is a glass shower with gold trimming, a hot tub for two, a marble-topped sink with a glass bowl, and a bidet-accessorized toilet. Walking back down the steps, there is a closet space directly beneath the bedroom area. It's carved out to make more room in this already spacious penthouse. The walk-in closet not only resembles its own boutique in a mall but also has a revolving mechanism to display multiple outfits. With the press of a button, you can view your runway looks for next week's trips to the bakery, grocery store, and local park. Moving away from this closet space and taking a step back toward the glass wall is the living area. There's a lush carpet of faux fur that feels like walking on heavenly clouds. The plush lining is so soft it feels like your feet are practically melting with the material. Around the high-definition TV mounted adjacent to the glass wall, there is a faux leather couch with a sage-green beanbag chair beside it, specifically for an accent color. Best of all, this penthouse is solely mine. It is the perfect Barbie Dreamhouse that even Barbie would have difficulty dreaming about.

The difficulty in writing is that rarely anything is tangible. In movies and shows, the audience is able to examine the lighting, contrast, and camera angle to contextualize the scene. As for a book, nothing but words on a page or pixelated screen can give a frame-by-frame. It is up to the writer to create something of such magnitude that the reader can taste the lemon tarts on their tongue, touch the course grain of asphalt, or hear the crickets whisper among the grass. Infinitesimal details somehow paint a picture larger than life. And that is my goal as a writer. I want to be able to scribe something so perfect and raw that it cannot be described as anything but real. My literature should be able to escape its two-dimensional confines and breathe the same air as I do. It is not just words but an organism — changing and evolving with time — just like you and me. My goal is to write something alive. A perfect example of such narration is a children's book engrained in my mind since I was eight. Oddly enough, for my entire life, I've rarely ever been able to remember the plots of books, movies, and shows. After a week or so, the stories disappear as remnants in the back of my mind. The only memories left are the feelings I experienced while consuming the content. Thus, when friends and family ask for recommendations, I spew out titles with no proper synopsis; all I have to go on are aches in my heart and the tail-ends of a small smile. One such example was a book that left me in bittersweet, beautiful tears: The Little Prince. Because the novel was so heartfelt to me, I revitalized my memory with the 2016 movie and reread the book once more. From this refreshment, recollections came flooding back on this masterpiece of a creation. If everyone in the world had to read only one book, it should be The Little Prince. This book transcends all ages across all generations. From children to adults, there's a lesson that can be applied to all walks of life. As said best by the fox himself, "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." It's a beautiful and engaging story for kids, and it's a powerful, moving tale for adults. You can grow up rereading this fable again and again, and each time, there is a new, captivating detail to appreciate. Every lesson evolves with each retelling. Arguably, though, the most compelling reason to read The Little Prince is its ending. This part of the story adds a delicate layer of complexity, even if it does leave you in tears. "In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You — only you — will have stars that can laugh." It's a reassurance to anyone who's lost a loved one, and its exquisite wording paints a magnificent picture of the fragility of life, appreciation, and friendship. There aren't enough words to describe the magnificence of this book. Every sentence is a beautiful symphony that Antoine de Saint-Exupéry has masterfully created. There is no experience like reading this book for the very first time, admiring the sky, and imagining the stars laughing with you. Every inch of this book surrounds you until it becomes real. You become the Aviator. You are the stars. You are everything enveloped inside this bounded cover. The Little Prince accomplishes everything I aim to do as a writer, and it is a masterful accomplishment that everyone should read.

For my entire life, I've rarely ever been able to remember the plots of books, movies, and shows. After a week or so, the stories disappear as remnants in the back of my mind. The only memories left are the feelings I experienced while consuming the content. Thus, when friends and family ask for recommendations, I spew out titles with no proper synopsis; all I have to go on are aches in my heart and the tail-ends of a small smile. One such example was a book that left me in bittersweet, beautiful tears: The Little Prince. Because the novel was so heartfelt to me, I revitalized my memory with the 2016 movie and reread the book once more. From this refreshment, recollections came flooding back on this masterpiece of a creation. If everyone in the world had to read only one book, it should be The Little Prince. This book transcends all ages across all generations. From children to adults, there's a lesson that can be applied to all walks of life. As said best by the fox himself, "It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye." It's a beautiful and engaging story for kids, and it's a powerful, moving tale for adults. You can grow up rereading this fable again and again, and each time, there is a new, captivating detail to appreciate. Every lesson evolves with each retelling. Arguably, though, the most compelling reason to read The Little Prince is its ending. This part of the story adds a delicate layer of complexity, even if it does leave you in tears. "In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night...You — only you — will have stars that can laugh." It's a reassurance to anyone who's lost a loved one, and its exquisite wording paints a magnificent picture of the fragility of life, appreciation, and friendship. There aren't enough words to describe the magnificence of this book. Every sentence is a beautiful symphony that Antoine de Saint-Exupéry has masterfully created. There is no experience like reading this book for the very first time, admiring the sky, and imagining the stars laughing with you.

For all my life, I've known blasting karaoke, respectful bows, and fish sauce. Stops at a fast food restaurant were either a reward or Mom's last-minute solution to a late shift at work. On special occasions, both sides of grandparents would come over for a ginormous feast and the latest familial gossip. Bathed in warm laughter, I mimicked the inflections of my mother tongue. This was the life of a Vietnamese daughter, the only child of two doting parents. This was the life I answered to, and until I began public school education, it was the only life I knew. When I first attended Kenneth Davis Elementary, I soon realized my Vietnamese lifestyle had no place in the classroom. In a room full of ketchup, mustard, and mayonnaise, I was fish sauce. The pungency ostracized me, so my answer was to submerge myself in academics and bury myself in the crowd. Even at the tender age of four, I began to understand my role in the community and my duty as a daughter. I strived for perfection in all of my work because there was no other option. Falling into my high school years, I enveloped myself in extracurriculars, service opportunities, and homework. This became my new life. In coincidence with karaoke, bows, and fish sauce, I now knew eraser shavings, crumpled papers, and squeaks on a whiteboard. However, sophomore year opened my eyes to my confined worlds. I had finally reached a breaking point. My two lives no longer supported my passions, and balancing them became a circus act. I wasn't meant to dedicate my entire existence to being the perfect daughter. I needed a life that finally revolved around me. As such, this money would go toward developing myself in college. As a high school senior, university is the next step toward my future, specifically somewhere in the growing STEM field. However, for the ambitious sights that I've set for myself, tuition will be an expensive limitation. I want to expand my horizons to their fullest potential, so I can solidify my career and give back to my community. Through this money, I can eventually help young scholars evolve their livelihoods in a meaningful, safe way that I didn't grasp when I was younger. Once I can find my own life, I can aid others in discovering theirs, too. This cycle of kindness can only flourish for generations to come — in part because of this scholarship. But who knows? I may even use the money to buy some fish sauce for the road.

@beansvafrijoles

In reading, literature can have different interpretations. History is so complex and convoluted that there is never a truly right answer. Science has multiple laws and principles that can explain a single phenomenon. However, an equation has specific solutions. Even in the presence of no solutions or infinite solutions, there is still one answer. You don’t have to deduce the hidden nuances or interpret the reasoning behind a world leader’s incomprehensible decision. The best part is: you can solve math in any (correct) way you please and still arrive at the same conclusion. With whatever method suits you best, you get to satisfyingly solve the puzzle. That same principle is amazingly applicable to the world. After enough time settling a problem in a unique way that is best for you, you’ll eventually attain your answer. Before, I used to see the world as a complicated history lesson meant for the books. If life was another story that had multiple layers of meaning, what was the use in understanding it all? I felt as if resolving a challenge was meaningless. Each day, I was presented with more difficulty; the arduous tasks seemed like they would never end. However, as I delved deeper into the world of math, my perception of the world changed. As the problems piled on, it didn't necessarily mean the complexity grew as well. Just as math can be straightforward and solved uniquely, so did everyday challenges. At a certain point (just like in math), problems begin to mimic each other. All difficulties still exist within the realm of the plausible, so logistically speaking, someone has to have been in a similar or exact situation. If that person or people have already faced the same circumstances, there should be no reason I can't either. Sure, they may tackle their problems differently than I do, but it doesn't mean we can't reach the same conclusions. With enough time and patience invested in the equation, an answer will be produced. Everything will have an answer. You may not know it now, and you may not know it even years from now. But eventually, you'll learn the skills and knowledge needed to understand the problem. It will unfurl like the petals of a lotus, and you'll blossom in the satisfaction of reaching the solution. Just like in mathematics, everything will eventually fall into place. You just have to believe in yourself.

Unlike most art, my creations aren't profound. Many artists speak monumental depths through every brush stroke or grace note they perform. I wish I could similarly say my pieces are timeless staples on the congeniality of two divergent cultures or that I’ve fundraised thousands of charitable dollars through my art. Unfortunately, I can’t. But that doesn’t take away any of my art’s value. My art has a different purpose. While I may still pour my heart and soul into curating a message, there isn’t always one. Sometimes, I’m creating art just because it’s invigorating to do so and because I get to do it in the company of others. When I’m performing violin on stage or painting as a pastime, I don’t need a philosopher to ponder every intellectual decision. I’m simply hoping to spark conversation. For instance, my paintings remind my grandpa of his life in Vietnam and his quaint clothing company of individually hand-painted T-shirts. They represent a hobby he was robbed of when his designs were stolen and when he immigrated to America. They signify his artistic genes being passed down to his granddaughter. Even through the language barrier, I get to bond with my grandfather over paintbrush tips and Mod Podge. The art itself doesn’t have a specific message behind it, but it allows me and so many other people to discuss livelihoods we never would have known otherwise. Music and art unite people through conversation. A beautiful symphony or a discordant cacophony still draws the center of attention. A hyperrealistic landscape or an abstract portrait invokes discussion. No matter the art, people can connect through meaningful dialogue. As long as people are connecting, my art has served its purpose. It’s not the in-depth message behind it but rather the actions that it sparks. As I continue to create art — both visually and audibly — I don’t need the art to speak volumes. I need the world to speak. I want people to connect and share their stories over an orchestra concert or recollect how a painting reminds them of their family. Through my art and music, I want to connect the world.

In Vietnamese culture, any person knows that the mark of a good party is drunken parents belting along to karaoke. As such, boisterous Vietnamese songs with off-key melodies were a staple of my childhood. I related tradition and cultural pride with this tuneful music. But at that age, music was defined as a reminder I couldn't articulate my mother tongue. It didn't speak to me. When my mother signed me up for piano lessons at eight years old, I learned that music wasn't only meant to be listened to. It was a method of expression — a carefully curated symphony dancing beneath my fingertips. Music was no longer a painful out-of-tune melody I had to endure at parties. It was Chopin and Czerny breathing amongst the keys. Of course, classical music wasn't enough to keep me entertained. It still didn't speak to me. So, my piano teacher bought me a book filled with Taylor Swift sheet music. I wasn't the largest Swiftie, but it was comforting for a woman two generations older than me to be reaching out this way. It was music that was familiar to me and not composers that lived centuries ago. And that's when it hit me. Music was a way of connection. Whatever words couldn't fully express, music answered in a variety of perfectly fitting tunes. No matter what barrier, the world could be united through notes on a staff. Life and everything around me finally spoke in a language I understood. When I joined orchestra in sixth grade on the violin, I met kids throughout the entire school district. Originally, we bonded over the vibrance and resonance in our string instruments. Then, we started to discuss our weekend plans and the difficulty of our core classes. These people were no longer just classmates; they became my best friends and helped me blossom into the person I am now. With their guidance, I delved into a journey of self-discovery. I explored and reexamined my favorite colors, book genres, and music taste. For the longest, I listened to the music of the masses. Whatever was popular, whatever was common among people that looked like me — I listened contently. During my pubescent age, I listened to artists that had less than a hundred monthly Spotify listeners. I recreated the melodies on my piano, reminding myself of the days I played Taylor Swift and enjoyed being a musician. I was connecting to lyrics written by indie singers and basslines by up-and-coming dreamers. I went to concerts with friends at venues smaller than my school's gymnasium. I loved every second of it. The vibrations strumming in the air mimicked the feeling of home. The smiles, shouts, and glances between my friends and me were the most beautiful cacophony to come from the music. The world was brighter and more vibrant. I was ecstatic to be myself and enjoy the way I felt in my own body. Through music, I learned to connect with my community. Melodies spoke clearer and resonated deeper. The world, no matter how dull, could be brightened by the paintbrush of music. It translated what languages couldn't express. Music makes the world speak.

My background as a first-generation Vietnamese American daughter of immigrants accounts for most of my values and lifestyle. When my parents finally reached the "Land of the Free," they transformed themselves into successful adults capable of providing for their entire families. They instilled the same determination and diligence into me during my youth. The system actively worked against people like us; to get to the same places as our neighbors, we had to work twice as hard. As such, I dedicated my entire academic career to striving for perfection. Retaining a 4.0 wasn't enough. I had to be valedictorian. I had to be the concertmaster of the varsity orchestra. I had to advance to state competitions. Three years later and entering as a rising senior, I've crossed all these items off my bucket list. Area orchestra, second in the state for UIL editorial writing, third in the state for UIL copy editing, and officer positions for multiple clubs are just a sample of my achievements. In addition, if I manage to maintain my academic excellence, I'll be giving a corny graduation speech in the next year. Had it not been for my upbringing, I wouldn't be half the person I am now. However, my background is also a reason for constant trouble. As an Asian American woman in the public school system, I know exactly what it's like to be the target of ridicule. During the pandemic, there was no shortage of COVID-19 jokes. In my computer science class, I was more familiar with offhand dismissals of my always-correct solutions than simple praise. To the male majority in that classroom, I was better off constructing Michelin courses than designing Python programs. When I came home, my parents criticized my "lazy" (exhausted) demeanor. To them, my best wasn't enough. There was always an extra step I had to achieve. A 98 could never amount to the fulfillment of a 100. Eventually, the taunts began to fester in my subconscious. My inner voice mimicked every joke I had grown up with. I became my own worst critic. Throughout the years, the degeneration finally caught up to me. I remember slouching next to the side of my bed in agony, wondering how long it'd take to down an entire bottle of pills. I wasn't one to dry-swallow capsules, so I considered the water bottle on my dresser. Just as my fingertips grasped the water, my phone buzzed with a life-saving call. I answered. These moments have propelled me to pursue a career path of challenge and achievement. I've grown accustomed to the feeling of constant pursuit, and in the STEM field, I get to satisfy my craving for accomplishment. Through the strive for knowledge, puzzles, and absolute answers, I get to create solutions that will benefit the future of society. Nothing sounds more rewarding than continuous triumphs and giving back to your community. In addition, I get to prove that Asian American women just as easily belong in the STEM field.

Dreams are constantly everchanging; in mine, I just want to finally be proud of who I've become.

It’s common knowledge how atrocious your junior year of high school can be. Throughout freshman year, I braced myself for two-faced friends and contemptible teachers. In a grand twist, my sophomore year punched me in the gut and folded me two times over. I didn’t mind the academics or extracurriculars. But then there was my social life. In the first half of the semester, I’d laugh off petty drama I witnessed and roll my eyes at trivial scuffles. By the second semester, I had targets on my back and people berating me online. I told myself it was innocent. I had innocently stumbled across a classmate making fun of my friend online, so I simply responded with "?" and moved on with my day. Although strange, I assumed if I didn’t fully engage in the matter nothing would come of it. A few weeks passed by and I had endless screenshots of their group wishing death upon me and calling me "idiotic" and homophobic slurs. In a month’s time, they spread a harmful rumor of me bullying a girl I hadn’t talked to in months let alone mention in conversation. I lost my grades. I lost friends. I lost my stability and the will to come to school each morning knowing they'd go scot-free. Each day, I kept telling myself the school year would eventually come to an end, and in doing so, I learned a valuable lesson on time. Time doesn't heal all wounds, but it stops the salt from digging deeper until there aren’t tears left to weep. It allows growth and patience that there will be a moment you can breathe again. A voice told me there was more to high school than lamenting over bullies. There was a light; I just had to focus on it.

All my life, I’ve been surrounded by art like a museum. Every corner I would turn to, there would be a new piece of work to admire. From participating in pit orchestras for musicals to having heavily involved Winter Guard friends, I was constantly exposed to various art forms; however, I was always drawn to a particular one. My grandfather, a key father figure, constantly painted each time I visited or stayed over. We’d both sit in silence as I admired each and every brushstroke. By the time I reached high school, he had dozens of paintings adorning different walls of my home. These paintings were practically photographs! Each stroke was carefully curated with the utmost attention to detail. Out of all his paintings, I would say my favorite is an idyllic scene of two baby birds snuggling up with one another as a water droplet was hanging from a nearby leaf. I remember the scene vividly because of its realism and the time spent crafting it. I can still recall sitting in his bedroom as I pestered him with questions about how he painted so well. “What’s that color for? How do you paint the feathers? Can I touch it?” It was a wonder he could still focus beside me. I can never pinpoint a specific reason as to why the painting is imprinted in my mind; there are just too many. I adore the apparent bond between the chicks and the way one clearly had a protective nature over the other. I admire the bead of water’s depth, almost full enough to condensate off the canvas. And perhaps most of all—I love the artist.

Imagine Russian children witnessing their own president go to such ridiculous lengths at a grasp for power. Imagine these same children without family, a true support system, in orphanages. Every Sunday in a unit building on the corner of West Debbie Lane and North Main Street, a group of high-school students packs boxes full of clothing, hygiene kits, medical supplies, and other miscellaneous items to ship to orphans overseas, namely Russia. This organization is called Allies in Youth Development, and it’s exactly where I volunteer every week. Typically, it starts with packing boxes. I pack 1-2 packages per week, filled to the brim with 43 pounds of donated material. Afterward, we’re assigned tasks that vary from week to week like restocking bins or taping lids (of shampoos, hand sanitizer, etc.) for a safe trip abroad. However, my favorite activity is creating mini-coloring book cards for the kids. On the inside is empty line art curated to the upcoming holiday or whatever default picture Margie, the main sponsor, has chosen. On the outside, a cover with a Russian message of our choice, typically “Hello from Texas”, adorns the cover along with decorations of stamps, stickers, and geometric patterns. I love the creative aspect and knowing this card will be read by a child some 6000 miles away. It’s a connection unique to my card and my card only. All of this local sourcing aims to positively impact less fortunate kids with the gift of substantivity. I can’t be prouder to say I have such a volunteer opportunity.

Compared to the thousands of dollars of my mom’s student loan debt or the billions needed to end world hunger, a thousand is a fraction, but that incredulous sum of money is still substantial enough to change lives. It wouldn’t take much to change mine. My first plan would be to pay my grandparent’s bills for the month. They’ve done so much for me all my life, practically being my second parents when I was younger. I owe them every penny I have; it’s the least I can do. With $800 remaining, second on my agenda would be to pay my mom’s monthly student loan due. Taking the ease off her shoulders is inconsequential compared to her overwhelming support since day one. I wouldn’t be half the person I am nor have the exemplary standards I do without her. Lastly, with around 3/5 of the money left, I’d save the rest for college. Education is one of the most important aspects of my life, so I’d spend it on costly materials like textbooks and school supplies. With immigrant parents, it’s essential that I make a name for myself and establish a respectable life in America. In a capitalistic society, it’s unfortunate that higher education comes at a price, but to achieve my dreams and satisfy the family legacy, I need all the money I can for university. Used on the principles most important to me, the $1000 would be spent on my loving family and for a greater life.

Being a bookworm, I’ve heard many phrases and adages that shock me to this day, but the tidbit of wisdom that I’ve held closest to my heart came from a young middle schooler with no ambition in life. And that middle schooler was me. A couple of days ago, I stumbled across an old letter that I had written to a future version of myself. In the end, the younger me mentioned some advice that I have yet to take as of now. In the bluntest way possible, she wrote, “No one cares.” It’s a flurry of words that sound depressing at first, but hear me out. When you’re wearing jeans and they sag a bit at the bottom, no one is looking. Your arms looking wiry and weirdly bony may affect some, but no one is staring deep into your soul and wishing for your arms to gain extra pounds. People aren’t watching your every move on how you position each and every individual finger, so you can stop worrying about that too. As I said in that letter, “Live a little!” Nobody is judging your every move in the way that you perceive yourself. You’re your own worst enemy, so once you cast aside the criticism, you can start discerning yourself in the beautiful way you were meant to. It’s not as elegant as most popular aphorisms, but it’s one of the wisest pieces of advice I still try to attain today.

Going into my junior year, I’ve undergone the juxtaposition of experiencing so much yet so little. Sixteen years of life have given me a complex understanding of how much time has passed, but my true journey is about to begin in another year. There is a multitude of goals that I hope future me can accomplish. The most daunting task that I hope I can achieve by my senior year is graduating valedictorian. I’ve secured my spot, but it’s only my sophomore year! I'll have to continue the unrelenting work for two more years. My entire family has held such high expectations of me ever since I started school, and I don’t want to end up disappointing them. This goal is a culmination of fear, ambition, and pride, as I feel most of my goals are. However, probably my most significant objective is to live until I’ve left a lasting mark on the world. Beginning in my middle school years, I developed nagging thoughts that I assumed everyone had. When I discussed these feelings with my friends, I realized I wasn’t in the majority. “Not existing” wasn’t a problem to most of the people I knew. Therefore, my goal is to live long enough to make a name for myself and my immigrant family. They didn’t work this hard to be in America and have it wasted on a daughter who can’t live on her own accord. This goal works in small increments at a time, but I’ve been able to stick with it so far. Most goals revolve around big feats like curing cancer, achieving worldwide stardom, or starting a loving family, but little goals like living hold the same achievability in my life. And that’s okay. I’ll work for those, too.

Ever since I was young, I’ve always had an obsession with scenic pictures and landscape paintings. I never ventured outdoors much because of my overprotective parents, but as time grew, they couldn’t keep me indoors. My appreciation of nature was just too strong. I’ve never been the athletic type, so my love for nature was condensed into artistic forms. Whenever my parents would take me on excursions or hikes, I would take out a camera or phone and snap photographs of native flowers or wildlife. I was incredibly fascinated by the beauty, depth, and complexity of nature that a mere picture couldn’t capture, but it was the closest to expressing my appreciation. When that wasn’t sufficient, I grew old enough to develop an understanding of backgrounds and painting. Under the guidance of my professionally-experienced grandfather, I painted landscapes that I could almost envision if I just closed my eyes. A paintbrush could now articulate the delicacy in every leaf and blade of grass that I saw. I began to produce painting after painting of imaginations I saw as a child or online photos of fantastical scenery. I showed the world an environment’s intricacies through my eyes. Now, I’m commissioned to recreate these settings to hang up in salons or homes; I can share my appreciation for nature with others.

Many equate generosity with its dictionary definition or a charitable act. To Merriam Webster, generosity is “the quality or act of being characterized by a noble or kindly spirit”. To me, generosity is encapsulated in a boy named Jack. When I was younger, my parents worked, so I had to be dropped off at a babysitter’s. She was a woman in her 60s who lived with her daughter and four grandsons, and she gave the warmest, tight hugs. However, it wasn’t fun to hang out with the equivalent of a grandmother when you were barely entering preschool. There wasn’t much to bond over other than a mutual love of cookies or rocking chairs. As such, I spent more time with her grandsons, particularly Jack. Jack was the youngest in his family and the easiest to pick on. He was much shorter, smaller, and scrawnier than his athlete brothers who were well off into high school and college, but he was the perfect “brother” to me. Even though I was five years younger and outside of their family, he treated me like I was his younger sister. He gave me extra portions of food when his grandmother wasn’t looking, taught me how to play my first ever video games, and comforted me until I took my scheduled naps. Even when his brothers bullied him into tears, he hastened to wipe them away and console me when I stubbed my toe. When I moved on to primary school, my grandparents retired and took over babysitting, but Jack’s generosity and kindness left a lasting imprint on my mind. He dedicated his time to nurturing me into the person I am now. I no longer keep in touch with him, but I hope everyone appreciates his munificence in the same way I have.

One day in third grade, my teacher told everyone to stand up for a friendly competition. She instructed us to simply spell the word given. If a student spelled it incorrectly, they sat down, and the word was passed on to the next person. By some miracle, I was the last one standing. I advanced to the school spelling bee and achieved second place. That was my introduction to the Scripps Spelling Bee. The following year, my mother sat me down in our dining room and explained how I now had to commit thousands of words to memory. In a month’s time, I managed to earn myself first place at school and a spot at the district spelling bee. Around the twelfth round, I missed my word and was escorted off the stage. However, my parents and I were thrilled; this meant I had a promising future for my upcoming spelling bee endeavors. By fifth grade, I won both my classroom and school bee. I had spent hours mastering over 2000 words by heart, and the fateful day of the MISD District Spelling Bee arrived. In a flurry of excitement and nerves, the first round started. “Your word is ingenious.” Several minutes in the spotlight stretched into what felt like hours, and after asking all the questions that Scripps allowed, I was urged to spell the word before my time ran out. “I-N-G-E-N-O-U-S.” The small ding sent a jab through my heart. So I tried even harder in the following years. In sixth grade, I won the classroom bee, then the school. Landing second place, I set my sights higher. Fighting for 53 rounds, the longest in district history, I was crowned district champion in seventh grade. Through persistence and perseverance each year, I finally won the district spelling bee.

Being my class’ current valedictorian, academics hold a high pedestal in my life. From my youth, my parents have instilled in me the importance of education, and so starting from an early age, I developed many study habits that propelled me to where I am now. One of my biggest weaknesses throughout the years has been my forgetful memory. After a couple of days or a unit test when the information no longer becomes useful to me, my brain disregards it entirely! However, of course, I end up needing it again throughout semester reviews, finals, or success in future classes. To combat this, I’ve had to come up with study tricks that can help me master my class material. The best website I’ve used thus far is Quizlet. Using the online flashcards and multitude of quiz options, it became a breeze to memorize long definitions by heart. However, when that wasn’t enough, I used a different method. Being a musician for more than half my life, I would turn concepts into small, easily memorable songs or patterns that I could translate into actual stories and pieces. For history class, I matched wars or battles into songs that I enjoyed at the time. For biology or chemistry, I would make alliterative phrases that had a steady beat I could memorize. Soon enough, my classes became easy!

It’s easy to focus on yourself in this fast-paced, modernizing world. Sometimes, you need the small moments in life to pull you back on focus on those around you. For me, it’s 2 hours every Sunday of packing boxes for orphaned children in third world countries. Every Sunday, I go to a warehouse for an organization called Allies in Youth Development. High school volunteers in the area, such as me, pack supply boxes full of hygiene kits, clothing items, arts and crafts, toys, and packaged foods. Once we’re done meeting our quota and taping the boxes shut with group photos, we set up a table and pull up chairs to start our next task: card making. We fold cards with colorless line-art inside so the orphans can have fun coloring their own masterpieces. On the outside, we decorate it with messages such as “Hello from Texas” in Russian (as that’s where most of the goods go) or translated, encouraging messages of our own. It’s not much, but these 2 hours that I dedicate every week to places all around the world warm my heart. I can live in peace knowing my efforts are directly helping someone in need, and I know I’ve put others in front of myself time and time again.

This year, I was blessed with the opportunity to be in a class called Partners in PE. Helpers, like me, would aid students with intellectual disabilities with their physical activities. Whether it be from hitting with a plastic baseball bat to cup stacking, I helped them each step of their journey. I created a close bond with several of the students including Mohammad, who has autism, and Nadia, who has Down Syndrome. I learned a great deal of patience in that class, and I took on a nurturing role that I had never grown accustomed to before. Teaching Nadia and Mohammad how to shoot baskets and play tennis unlocked an encouraging side of myself that I’d never witnessed. I’d give small words of motivation each time they were able to do various tasks, like make their beanbag toss or successfully make a cup tower. (They were never able to make a basket, but I praised them anyway for giving the toss of their life.) It was their smiles from ear to ear that solidified the idea they were going in the right direction. After their attempts, they’d turn to me for approval, and it was the most heartwarming feeling in the world.

My definition of the meaning of life varies greatly from many others I know. Some say it’s achieving skyrocketing levels of fame or rolling in millions of dollars in wealth. My definition is close to what I never saw as a child. Unconditional love. Whether it be from my parents or my parents to each other, I had no love to base my crushes on. I saw countless fights and petty arguments that didn’t match the vision of love in movies or books. I grew a new meaning of life in my deep-rooted sentiments: find the person you love and create a loving family with them. Families don’t have to be the idyllic mom-and-dad-with-two-children picture, either. They can be just a dog or two cats with two equally loving parents. I yearn for that moment so bad, cursing myself for each show, movie, and book that depicts the exact content I’m anticipating earnestly. But I’m young, and there’s so much more time for me to achieve it. I’m not actively trying to find my perfect match, but if life gives me that opportunity, I’d be more than happy to take it.

Most of my bucket list includes extensive travel to places on the opposite side of the globe, but a large portion of it also includes the classic teenager activities that I hope I’ll accomplish by the end of high school. Become valedictorian? Check. I’ve worked my butt off for the past two years to reach this point. I’m not sure if I’ll maintain this position all the way to senior year, but I’ve been told that if I keep up my work ethic, I’ll be able to give my fancy graduation speech and be called last to the stage. Go to the movies with my friends? Check. Watching Spider-Man: No Way Home was an absolute blast last December, and it was probably the most I’ve cried in a month. Become an officer for the clubs I’m in? Double-check. I appreciated my time as class vice-president, and I hope I can fulfill my duty again during my senior year. For now, I’ll keep to my editor duties in Key Club. Who knew the buttloads of work it takes to create an entire newsletter from scratch? (I’ve been told becoming a teenager means you exude sarcasm out of all your pores.) Take a senior trip with all my friends? Not quite. Of course, I’m only in my sophomore year, so that might explain why this task hasn’t been checked off the list yet. We’re all happily awaiting for that cruise trip to arrive during the summer after we’ve saved enough from our summer jobs. I absolutely can’t wait to feel the tan of the sun whilst Bryant, Stephanie, Eden, and I stare at delectably hot people. High school is just getting started, and I’m so excited to spontaneously create more of my bucket list to cross off.

All my life I’ve had issues with my confidence. Anybody in my circle can tell you I never take a compliment no matter how many times it’s told to me. It’s not an issue with my humility but rather my belief. I sometimes simply don’t believe the praises people tell me. It’s not the commendations that show your confidence. It’s the inner feeling of fierceness when you walk outside the door. Confidence is knowing your content in your own skin, even owning up to its flaws and imperfections. Confidence is rocking those imperfections and loving them. That’s a journey that not all have embarked on to the fullest, and that includes me. I’m getting there, though. Recently, I’ve started dressing out more and wearing extra makeup. It’s not these outlandish outfits or glam looks that land me my confidence. It’s the feeling I get when I go home, take all of it off, and stand in the mirror. This past week, I’ve smiled at myself in the mirror more than I have in my entire life. When it's down to just my skin and the mirror, I appreciate my wide nose and the way my top lip is bigger than my bottom. I take more pictures of myself because I’ve grown accustomed to my features. They’re blessings that I’m not ready to admit to yet. But I’m getting there, and that’s all that matters.

Throughout my life, I’ve noticed a stigma toward students with mental impairments in my household. Of course, I acknowledged the homophobia and racism, but they were in the form of microaggressions and backhanded comments. However, in my family where intelligence is held to a high standard, the disgrace toward mental disabilities stood out. However, this year, I had the privilege of being in a class called Partners in PE. We, the helpers, aided our classmates with intellectual disabilities during physical activities. One in particular that I grew closer to was a boy named Mohammad. Mohammad has a stutter and outbursts when you talk to him in a different tone than usual. He can't shoot a basket, but he can match a day in the year to its weekday by memory. He greets you with a wide grin, and he says my name like it's always on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to get out. Mohammad gave me a wider appreciation for human beings all around. He was no different than I, still smiling and laughing as anybody could. He taught me patience, and most of all, he melted my icy exterior. I grew to love Mohammad like an older sister; I sat with him during his outbreaks and held his hand during 30-minute walks. Mohammad showed me how to empathetically prioritize others over myself. I owe my compassion to him and the graciousness of my counselor. Seeing the world in his shoes has been a step for me to a greater outlook on life and how to respect those around me.

For the longest time, I always settled my frustrations in two ways; I either vented to my friends or buried them deep in the back of my mind. Most of the time, I bottled my emotions. However, on the occasion that I did confide in my companions, I felt like a horrible burden afterward. It was toxic for both parties, so I sought a different method to take care of my mental health. Journaling. Writing to my heart’s content, I could say whatever I pleased with an actual outlet. No one read my intimate thoughts but me, but I still in a way felt heard. Someone other than the crooks in my brain had seen my introspections, and it was the pages in my leather-covered, gold-etched journal. This past year, I had been bullied to the point of considering taking my life. I thought my closest friends hated me, and I had no one to turn to. My family was always scolding me for the smallest mistakes, so I knew if I told them of the situation at school, it’d only worsen as they’d blame me. At my lowest, I went to a small store nearby and bought a journal. It had called right out to me with its italicized “thoughts” on the cover written in gold ink. I knew it was the perfect solution to my deteriorating mental health. Ever since, when I have overwhelming sentiments that I can’t bear to hold anymore, I start scribbling away at my diary pages. It’s the most therapeutic activity I’ve regressed back to at the low points in my life, and for good reason. It saved my mental health, and it’s the way I’ve been taking care of myself.

Growing up, I developed one of my biggest passions: gaming. Throughout my life, I’ve picked up many hobbies that I’ve quickly grown tired of—bracelet making, writing, journaling, and even vlogging. I’d be focused on these activities for weeks to even months on end only to have my spark fizzle out. However, I always had a space in my life for gaming. When life had dealt me an unfavorable hand and I felt like I couldn’t turn anywhere, I could always depend on a video game to cheer me up and transport me into a different world. There was no feeling like turning on the monitor, putting your headset on, and waiting at the loading screen. Calling a friend and playing out your heart’s pains and frustrations was such a momentous feeling I had always gravitated toward. Even to this day, when homework has beaten me down and my AP class has posted the eighth assignment for the week, I can hop on Valorant with my friends to ease the pressure. Partly because of my gaming passion, I’ve decided to embark on a programming career. I’m no hotshot who’s completely cracked at the games I play, but I still want to be involved in the process. With my own hands, I could combine my creativity and love for video games to create the next hit in the industry. What better way to continue my passion in life than to create video games for the next generation?

When I first started the violin in sixth grade, it was a complete struggle. I could barely squeak out a sound that didn’t resemble a dying donkey. I assumed that, naturally, I could be playing like the pros within a few weeks' time. However, that was far from the truth. My teacher said I was a fast learner and that my previous years with piano translated to my ability to sightread and understand musicality. What I lacked were the basic parts like my bow hold and intonation. Compared to my classmates, I was inexperienced. There were kids who transferred from other districts with a headstart while others had been playing since they were 5. For our first concert, I was even seated in the very back row. It was wholly discouraging, and so when my parents enrolled me in private lessons, I knew I had to practice more than just in class. Whenever I could, I took extra hours in my day to practice my instrument. At a point, my fingertips built callouses from the amount of playing I endured. In the span of a year, I was the principal chair of my section—the concertmaster. Then, when high school came around, the stakes were amplified. I was now competing with seniors from the entire region who excelled past our first-generation orchestra. I remember tirelessly practicing past the wee hours of the night, my wrist cramping and my fingertips becoming gray from the metal strings. I droned the same scales and lines of my excerpts until it was ingrained in my mind. Sure enough, it all paid off. For both my freshman and sophomore year, I was the principal seat for my section in the top orchestra. I can’t wait for my upcoming two years to see how I’ll progress.

In times of stress, panic, or melancholy, I turn to music to calm me down. Being a violinist and pianist, I’m given a greater depth, perception, and appreciation for music. There’s nothing like putting in my Airpods, closing my eyes, and floating along with the melody of my favorite song. One of my favorite songs is Freakin’ Out on the Interstate by Briston Maroney. The song perfectly embodies the feeling of overwhelming panic yet a chilling numbness. The steady drums set a rhythm to pace yourself to, and the riffing guitar adds extra flair. However, arguably the best part of the song is the lyrics. The chorus starts off with an apology, saying, “I’m sorry I haven’t been myself.” It demonstrates introspection and self-reflection. Then, the repeated pauses after “and one thing I found is love is what you deserve” allow for the listener to wallow in the lyric; it’s the perfect timing and beat drops that give a true sense of satisfaction and completion in the meaning and coinciding, beautiful harmonies. This song inspires me not only because of its repeated message of self-love but also because it gives the perfect atmosphere for authentic contemplation. In our day and age, life flies past our digital screens and constantly developing world. Moments to ourselves where we can ponder over our existence and its meaning become increasingly valuable; that is why this song inspires me so much. It inspires me to think about myself, the person I’m becoming, and the person I want to become. It inspires me to be a better me.

“What is a legacy? It’s planting seeds in a garden you’ll never get to see.” To the average person, that’s just another Hamilton quote. However, it defines exactly what legacy is. How can you control a posthumous legacy? As such, it matters what you do during your life to impact what happens after you’re gone. Although I’d love to be a world-renowned scientist who finds the cure for cancer, it’s not the most feasible idea. International fame is nothing compared to being cherished by your loved ones. When I’m no longer on Earth, I want the people who knew me to have fond memories of me and admire the impact I had on their life. On the anniversary of my death, or đám dỗ in Vietnamese, I want my family to have extravagant feasts and celebrations in my name. My death date shouldn’t be a day of mourning; it should be a day of honor and remembrance. In my absence, I want people to tell comedic anecdotes but also highlight the way I've touched their lives. Let there be laughs, joy, and pride in my legacy.

Being a 4.0 student, the class vice president, an active Key Club member, a student athletic trainer, an academic UIL participant, and an orchestra student, it’s essential for me to get my self-care. As for me, my form of self-care is a well-deserved nap. According to Mayo Clinic, naps reduce fatigue, increase alertness, and improve performance. Napping is even linked to overall health improvement and aiding memory formation! When I need to cram a week’s worth of studying into a single session, I definitely need these napping benefits. It’s filled out all the boxes for physical health. However, mental health is also a key factor in one’s wellbeing. Napping gives me a good time to unwind and wire down for the day. Burnt out from school and being attached to technology for a good 8 hours, I can relax for 30-60 minutes, the perfect amount of time I need to get recharged. When I wake up, I feel refreshed and like I’ve gotten a push to the end of the day. Sometimes self-care is straightforward; it doesn’t have to be an extravagant skincare routine or an allotted time planned straight to the second. It can simply be a power nap, a beautiful time for regeneration and self-sufficiency.

Imagine Russian children witnessing their own president go to such ridiculous lengths at a grasp for power. Imagine these same children without family, a true support system, in orphanages. Every Sunday in a unit building on the corner of West Debbie Lane and North Main Street, a group of high-school students packs boxes full of clothing, hygiene kits, medical supplies, and other miscellaneous items to ship to orphans overseas, namely Russia. This organization is called Allies in Youth Development, and it’s exactly where I volunteer every week. Typically, it starts with packing boxes. I pack 1-2 packages per week, filled to the brim with 43 pounds of donated material. Afterward, we’re assigned tasks that vary from week to week like restocking bins or taping lids (of shampoos, hand sanitizer, etc.) for a safe trip abroad. However, my favorite activity is creating mini-coloring book cards for the kids. On the inside is empty line art curated to the upcoming holiday or whatever default picture Margie, the main sponsor, has chosen. On the outside, a cover with a Russian message of our choice, typically “Hello from Texas”, adorns the cover along with decorations of stamps, stickers, and geometric patterns. I love the creative aspect and knowing this card will be read by a child some 6000 miles away. It’s a connection unique to my card and my card only. All of this local sourcing aims to positively impact less fortunate kids with the gift of substantivity and bring our community closer. I can’t be prouder to say I have such a volunteer opportunity.

“Watch what you eat.” “I think you should start exercising.” “You’re looking like your dad’s side of the family.” My best friend even said, “I’m going to tell your mom about this,” to which my response was, “She’d probably say it was for the better.” I’ve grown up my whole life afraid to step on, let alone even take a glance at, a scale. Even though I’ve hovered over being underweight for almost all my life, my family always nitpicked my every nutritional choice or (lack of) my exercising habits. Running on sometimes less than 1 meal a day was the epitome of what NOT to do in leading the healthy life I was trying so hard to achieve. In times when I pitied myself into oblivion, I would devour a week's worth of food in a single sitting. In the following days, I vowed not to eat to act as a “punishment” for my terrible deeds. Had I been able to have the right guidance, counseling, and support, none of that would’ve occurred. It was my mental instability that had rocked me so far from persuasion. As such, I was learning a great deal about what truly made up my well-being. Your body reflects your mindset. In the grand scheme of health and prosperity, people say to run 4Ks or make sure your diet contains the perfect balance of nourishment. However, physical health is rooted in an entity much deeper: mental health. Having bottled up my feelings for most of my life and dumping them in destructive fashions, I can attest that surrounding yourself with an unwavering support group directly leads to a long and healthy life.

On a solemn October day, my orchestra director, along with red-eyed counselors and shaking staff members, pulled almost the entire orchestra department together to announce unforeseen news. As he uttered the words, my heart dropped and I heard the ringing of my phone clanging against the floor. Memories like these pull me back into reality; it’s not every day you hear that your classmate committed suicide. I remember drowsily walking the hallways, the only thought in my mind being to keep my composure together. Almost like a ritual, as soon as I sat down in any of my classes, tears poured like an infinite waterfall. Every instance where I interacted with him, every unspoken word I had yet to say, rushed through my head in a flurry of moments. Usually, memories are supposed to be short occurrences; they’re nothing more than a flashback. That entire day, the memory of Anson Flores-Pham hung over me like a raincloud. Ever since October 16, 2019 at 8:27am, I had a reformed vision of life. Years prior had taught me most of my actions were meaningless and that each passing hour was an entanglement of time, but at that very moment, every speck that I had imprinted onto Earth and those around me grew in importance. His absence reminded me of how much potential a single individual could hold. Life was a miracle waiting to be unfolded; you just needed time to find its true value. Anson didn’t have that time, and it was the duty of the rest of the orchestra to expand on that lesson. His memory serves as a reminder of how precious and delicate the gravity of existence is.

I remember frantic calls, blaring sirens, and tingling fingertips. During the car ride, I recall distraught orders in my native tongue, a foreign language I had burrowed in the back of my mind. In the passenger seat, my grandpa kept telling my dad and me that he was fine despite his slurred speech and small tremors. This was a fateful day on August 6, 2016, in which my grandpa had suffered a stroke, cerebral ischemia. As a clueless 9-year-old, I watched patiently as my parents burst out in heated arguments and as my mother bickered with my grandpa’s brother, her own uncle. Even at such a young age, I was introduced to the concept of fatalism; although I didn’t grasp every detail, it occurred to me that time was a limited currency. I spent long hours at the hospital while ignoring nurses hand-feeding my Ông Ngoại [maternal grandfather in Vietnamese] and him having to be assisted in urination. I drew anime figures on a hung-up whiteboard that was supposed to be for my grandpa’s dietary routine but was now a form of artistic expression and an attempt to cheer him up. Too young to fathom the magnitude of the situation, I awaited Ông Ngoại’s return home shortly thereafter. Throughout this entire time, I tried distracting myself through vivid, diverting videos on pixelated screens. It wasn’t as triumphant as becoming a brain surgeon to solve his problems or discovering the cure to a stroke, but as a 9-year-old, I grew accustomed to numbing my mind. I hadn’t realized it at the time, but this introduction of inevitability shifted my entire perspective of life. I started to understand the gravity in each and every moment I spent with the people closest; before I knew it, I had created an unconscious desire to reminisce and capture my happiest memories in preserved photos. I learned the maturity in appreciation, and because of this, I have carried this lesson throughout all my experiences in life. Although a nuisance for others, you can constantly catch me snapping quick photos everywhere and having a hoard of memorabilia. There are certain people I wish had deleted sooner from my camera roll and others I never got the chance to capture in photographs before they were gone. Some I continue to make memories with while others are nothing more than a figment of memories. Comprehending the fact the essence of life, or time, is finite, I hold a new grace wherever I go; using this ounce of wisdom, any difficulties I face are now bound by no chains. These challenges are merely a fixation in time, and time eventually passes no matter how slow or fast you want it to progress. As time passes, so will the adversities. Perspective is everything.