I almost always wear black and dress alternative, not because I want to come across as dark or grim, but because it genuinely makes me feel good. Growing up, my mom used to push back on it and tell me I should wear “happy” colors. But black is my happy color. When I dress in a way that feels true to me, my reality shifts. I carry myself differently. I stand taller, my chest opens up, and I feel like I can take up space without apologizing for it. I have shown up to meetings with my academic advisor dressed exactly like myself, and I remember being surprised, in the best way, that he never treated it as unprofessional or concerning. He did not give me that look people sometimes do when they think your appearance says something negative about your character. Instead, he noticed the symbols on my outfit and pointed them out with curiosity and slight amusement. That stayed with me. It reminded me how meaningful it is to be seen as serious and capable without having to sandpaper the parts of myself that are most real. That kind of acceptance means a lot to me because I am an ex-Muslim from Iran, where self-expression through clothing has never been simple. Women are legally required to cover their bodies except for the face and hands, and to wear long and loose clothing such as a manteau. Not following those rules can lead to punishment, including fines, imprisonment, or lashes under the Islamic Penal Code. In that kind of environment, clothing is never just clothing. Body presentation in public becomes political whether you want it to or not. Even things that might seem small in other places can carry risk in my home country. Bright dyed hair, visible piercings, especially facial piercings, heavy makeup, and alternative fashion can all be treated as violations of modesty laws. Mahsa Amini’s death in morality police custody after being detained for alleged improper dress code made that reality impossible to ignore, and Iranian women continue to resist these dress codes every day. For me, dressing alternative is personal, but it is also political. Wearing clothes I was taught were unacceptable became one of the first ways I started undoing the internalized misogyny I had absorbed since childhood. Every time I wore an alt top or a skirt, I felt alive. It felt like reclaiming something that had been controlled for so long. A way of saying my body does not exist just to comply. As a master’s student, I feel a different version of pressure now. There is still an unspoken expectation, especially in technical and professional spaces, that to be taken seriously you should look a certain way. But showing up as myself has taught me that professionalism is not a color palette. It is the quality of my work, the sharpness of my thinking, and the integrity I bring to what I do. I want to contribute to STEM in Fall 2026 through MS in Information Systems. I want to build tools and research that make hidden patterns visible, especially for communities that are flattened into stereotypes or ignored altogether. And I want other alternative students to see someone like me and understand that competence does not have a dress code. Representation changes who feels welcome enough to apply, who feels safe enough to stay. I am ambitious, stubborn in the best way, and serious about making an impact. STEM is stronger when people like me are not only allowed into the room, but are able to help reshape it.

Before The Life of a Showgirl, I was more of a distant admirer of Taylor Swift than a devoted listener. But this album changed that for me. It made me realize that Taylor brings a kind of emotional depth, theatricality, and confidence that I did not know I needed in my life. The Life of a Showgirl feels like a reflection on her life in public view, and “The Fate of Ophelia” became the song that transformed the way I connected to her work. The particular performance of Taylor’s that I find most moving is her performance of “The Fate of Ophelia.” What moves me is not only the artistry of the song itself, but the way it turns vulnerability into power. The song reimagines Ophelia not as someone consumed by despair, but as someone rescued from it, and that emotional shift hit me at exactly the right time. I first heard it during one of my depressive episodes. I was crying alone in a gym bathroom stall, feeling deeply out of place, insecure, and convinced that I did not belong there. To calm myself down, I put on music, and I came across “The Fate of Ophelia.” Something about it changed my emotional state almost instantly. It felt as if a crown had been placed on my head. I walked back out of that bathroom with more confidence, played the song on repeat for the rest of my workout, and no longer felt like an outsider. Ever since then, I have used that feeling as a point of reference whenever I need to remember my own strength. That is why this performance feels so moving to me: it became tied to a real turning point in my own life. It was not just a song I listened to. It was a song that helped regulate me, ground me, and restore my self-esteem in a moment when I felt small. Later, I learned that the song was widely understood as being inspired in part by Travis Kelce. That detail felt unexpectedly personal to me, because I study at the University of Cincinnati, where Kelce once attended. In a strange way, that connection made the song resonate even more. Coming to UC has been one of the places where I have truly started finding myself, and Taylor’s music arrived alongside that process of self-discovery. What I find most powerful about Taylor Swift is her ability to make pain feel cinematic, but also survivable. In “The Fate of Ophelia,” she takes sadness and transforms them into something elegant and empowering. That is why this performance stays with me: because it did not just move me emotionally, it helped me stand back up.

FYI-Sabrina Carpenter was one of my top three most-listened-to artists on Apple Music in 2025. Her music has genuinely been part of how I’ve grown into myself. Growing up, I was an awkward child who did not feel very feminine. I was surrounded by boys and, in many ways, socialized like one too. Because of that, I felt disconnected from a part of myself that seemed underdeveloped, and I needed female role models to help me access it. One of the ways I found that side of myself was through singing. I go to karaoke two to three times a week, and I often sing Sabrina Carpenter songs there. Her album Man's Best Friend is my favorite, and my go-to karaoke songs are “Manchild” and “When Did You Get So Hot.” Singing them feels fun, freeing, and strangely healing. I also love her single “Feather.” After breaking up with my ex-boyfriend, I needed empowering songs that could help me move forward, and that was one of them. Her music helped me emotionally at a time when I also needed to stay focused on my studies. Having Sabrina Carpenter in the background while I did homework or graded assignments made it easier to concentrate and kept my spirits up. Beyond the music itself, I find her campy style incredibly endearing. I love that she does not take herself too seriously, yet still comes across as absolutely gorgeous and ethereal. There is something powerful about that mix of humor, confidence, and femininity, and I think that is part of why her music resonates with me so much.

Living with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and ADHD-related academic challenges has shaped the way I move through the world, especially in education. These conditions are not always visible to others, but they affect the everyday things that often determine whether someone thrives or struggles: concentration, emotional regulation, organization, processing information under stress, and the ability to function consistently. For a long time, I judged myself harshly for struggling with tasks that seemed to come more easily to other people. I knew I was intelligent and hardworking, yet there were times when my own mind felt like the biggest obstacle between me and the life I was trying to build. My mental health challenges have affected far more than my mood. They have shaped my academic experience, my self-confidence, and the way I understood myself. There were periods when stress became so overwhelming that even basic responsibilities felt much larger than they were. It is difficult to explain what it feels like to care deeply about your education while also feeling as though your mind is fighting against you. From the outside, someone may look capable and composed, while privately struggling to keep up. That disconnect can be deeply isolating. It can leave a person feeling inadequate, even when they are trying with everything they have. One of the most important parts of my growth has been learning that survival is not the same thing as healing. For a long time, I focused only on getting through difficult periods. Eventually, I had to make a more serious commitment to recovery. That meant being honest with myself about what I needed and accepting that I could not simply push through everything alone. I began seeking support in ways that were uncomfortable but necessary. I am now in both individual therapy and group therapy, and both have helped me in meaningful ways. Individual therapy has helped me better understand my patterns, recognize my triggers, and develop healthier coping strategies. Group therapy has reminded me that healing does not only happen in isolation and that there is strength in being understood by others who know what struggle feels like. Another turning point in my recovery was receiving support through the University of Cincinnati’s Accessibility Resources. I was approved for accommodations including double time on timed assessments, reduced-distraction testing, a reader for tests, class materials in alternative format, and accessible note-taking technology. Those accommodations did not remove my struggles, but they gave me a fairer opportunity to demonstrate my abilities. They gave me access, not advantage. Just as importantly, my professors were thoughtful, supportive, and willing to help ensure that my classes and materials were accessible. That support meant a great deal to me. When someone is already struggling, being met with understanding instead of doubt can make all the difference. These experiences have deeply shaped my personal growth and educational goals. My background in Anthropology taught me to pay close attention to people, context, and the human consequences of systems. My future studies in Information Systems will allow me to think more practically about how systems, institutions, and technologies can be designed to better serve people. I want to bring those perspectives together to create work that is more accessible, more human-centered, and more responsive to underserved communities. I know firsthand what it feels like to depend on systems being willing to recognize your needs as real, and I want to help build systems that do better from the beginning. My plan for continuing to manage recovery is active and ongoing. I intend to remain engaged in both individual and group therapy, continue using the academic accommodations that support my success, and maintain routines that help me manage stress in healthy ways. I have learned that recovery requires honesty, structure, and consistency. It requires asking for help before things become overwhelming. As I continue my education, I am committed to protecting my mental health while building a future that is not only ambitious, but sustainable. My experiences with mental health have challenged me deeply, but they have also made me more self-aware, resilient, and purposeful. They have taught me that support can change the course of a person’s life. I want to use both my education and my lived experience to help create systems and spaces where more people can feel seen, supported, and able to succeed.

Living with PTSD, depression, anxiety, and ADHD-related academic challenges has changed the way I move through the world and through school. I do not say that for sympathy. I say it because disability, especially when it is not always visible, changes how you experience things that other people may take for granted: focusing for long periods of time, processing information quickly, managing stress without spiraling, or catching small details when your mind is already overloaded. I have always been a hardworking student, but being hardworking and being mentally well are not the same thing, and I have had to learn that the hard way. There were times when I felt frustrated with myself because I knew I was capable, yet I could not always perform in a way that reflected that. It is a strange feeling to care deeply about your education while also feeling like your own mind is sometimes working against you. Getting support through the University of Cincinnati’s Accessibility Resources made a real difference in my life. I was approved for accommodations, including double time on timed assessments, reduced-distraction testing, a reader for tests, class materials in alternative format, and accessible note-taking technology. Those accommodations did not hand me success. They gave me a fairer chance to reach it. What also stayed with me was the way my professors responded. They were supportive, thoughtful, and willing to make sure my classes and materials were accessible. That meant a lot to me. When you are struggling, people’s reactions matter. A supportive environment does not erase disability, but it can make the difference between feeling shut out and feeling like you still belong. Outside the classroom, I have also had to take my mental health seriously. I am in both individual therapy and group therapy, and both have helped me in different ways. Individual therapy has helped me understand my own patterns and build healthier ways of coping. Group therapy has reminded me that struggle can feel isolating, but healing often happens in the presence of other people. Both have taught me that asking for help is not weakness. It is work. Sometimes exhausting work, but necessary work. Because of these experiences, I think differently now about underserved communities. I know what it feels like to need support and to depend on systems being willing to recognize your needs as real. I also know how many people fall through the cracks when institutions are designed around one narrow version of what a “good” student, worker, or person looks like. There are so many intelligent, capable people whose potential gets buried under barriers that other people never have to think about. That is why I care so deeply about using my education to support underserved communities. My background in Anthropology taught me to pay attention to people, context, and the human consequences of systems. My future studies in Information Systems will help me think more practically about how systems, technologies, and institutions can be designed better. I want to bring those two perspectives together to create work that is more accessible, more human-centered, and more aware of the people who are usually left out of the conversation. My disability experience has made me more resilient, but more importantly, it has made me more aware. It has taught me not to assume that everyone is starting from the same place. It has taught me that support can change the course of someone’s life. I want to use both my education and my lived experience to help build systems that treat accessibility as something people deserve from the beginning.