The sky was impossibly blue the last time I saw Amber—one of those rare Texas afternoons in early spring where the air hums softly with sunlight, and a breeze lingers in the air. We were sitting on the cracked stone steps outside of school during lunch, surrounded by the familiar buzz of students rushing to fifth period, notebooks scattered between us. I was helping her prep for her Lincoln-Douglas rebuttal speech on GMOs, though our session had—as it often did—drifted far from the prompt into a tangle of laughter and half-serious philosophizing. She had just argued that GMOs might solve world hunger, and I quipped that they’d probably also make us grow glow-in-the-dark corn-textured hair! She had dyed her hair a soft cinnamon brown with sunlit undertones, and I remember how it caught the light like it was meant to be noticed. I told her I loved the change and she smiled, not the kind you offer out of politeness, but the one that reaches the eyes and lingers. I remember thinking that my best friend seemed lighter than usual, more present. Two days later, she was gone. The news came on a Tuesday morning, sterile and sudden, carried into my world through the lips of an assistant principal with a voice too calm for what he was saying. “Amber took her life,” he told me, and everything inside me recoiled as if language had failed, as if those words could not belong in the same sentence. My first instinct was denial. I had just seen her. I had just told her she looked radiant. How could my best friend so alive, so brilliant, so quick with her wit and passionate with her arguments, have been carrying such immense weight? What they don’t tell you about grief at sixteen is how quietly it moves into your life. It doesn’t wail or scream; it lingers in the gaps—between classes, within the chorus of our favorite songs, in the ache of an empty seat beside you during every debate tournament. It’s in the absence of her laughter, her missing hand-written letters for every special occasion, in the way I found myself looking for her in every crowd after my accomplishments. I grieved not only her passing, but also for the silence she drowned in; the fact that she wore it so invisibly that even I, one of her closest friends, never saw it. That pain haunted me: I had missed the signs. I, who prided myself on empathy, missed the most important cry for help. But in that cavern of sorrow, I found a whisper, faint but persistent: do something. Do something with this pain. Let it be a seed, not a grave. In the months that followed, I carried Amber’s memory not as a wound, but as a responsibility. I began to speak—first softly, then with growing strength—about the importance of mental health in youth spaces, about how easy it is to overlook the pain of those who appear “put together,” and about how dangerous silence can be. As Vice Chair of the Texas High School Democrats, I brought this conviction into policy. I testified in support of Senate Bill 26, which would allocate grants to nonprofit and healthcare providers offering mental health services—especially for children and families. It is a rare and beautiful thing when policy touches people’s lives where they actually live, when it reaches into classrooms and bedrooms and hearts. I wanted to help build that bridge. But policy, I learned, is only part of the battle. Healing begins not in courtrooms, but in classrooms. That’s why I joined my school’s Hope Squad, a peer-led initiative aimed at destigmatizing mental health struggles and creating a culture of connection. Sometimes, I wonder if Amber would have joined; I think she would’ve brought cupcakes to every meetings. I think she would’ve asked the hardest questions. I think she would’ve made us all laugh until our stomachs hurt. And I think she would’ve saved someone. In her absence, I try to. Amber changed the way I see the world. I no longer pursue public policy and law in the abstract; I pursue them with names and faces in mind—with a fierce hope that systemic change is possible, and that it can begin with one conversation, one bill, one brave moment of vulnerability. I try, always, to see people clearly, looking beyond practiced smiles and asking the second question. Mental health is a central cause to me, the invisible thread often running through every crisis we face: homelessness, incarceration, gun violence, poverty. We cannot legislate change without healing the human soul. And I am here to fight for that soul. Amber’s. My own. Yours. There are days when I still feel the ache of her absence in sudden ways—Viva La Vida (our debate hype song) playing on the radio, the smell of cherry lip balm. Each morning, I walk past her memorial plaque by the main office—its brass lettering catching the sun just as her freshly dyed hair did—and I can almost hear her teasing voice from above, scolding me for being late again, coffee in hand! And yet, I know she is present in the work I do, in the compassion I carry, in every conversation where I honor her memory. Soon, I will graduate. I will walk across a stage that feels both triumphant and haunted. Before the ceremony, my friends and I will visit her resting place. We will bring flowers, and I will bring balloons—lavender and gold, her favorite colors. We will tell her stories of our lives, play her favorite songs. As the sun leans into the horizon, I will whisper: I am living for you now. And then I will release the balloons skyward, watching them rise—weightless. Like grief. Like love. Like promises kept. I will feel her light shining on me, and I will spend my life walking toward that light, carrying others with me.

I will never forget how frigid the room felt—the kind of cold that sinks into your soul, makes you shiver, and turns your fingertips too icy to grip a pen. My hands trembled. I was ten years old, standing beside my mother at a government office, tasked with translating portions of my grandmother’s citizenship application. Her voice wavered as she answered questions, eyes anxiously scanning the dense forms filled with legalese. The clerk rolled her eyes at my mother’s questions and murmured something to the agents beside her. The air was thick with a bureaucratic indifference that made me feel small. My mother looked to me for help. Every box I filled out felt like walking across a minefield—one wrong answer would lead to the denial I feared for my grandmother's application. I was disappointed; no one in that office wanted to help. That was the first time I realized the law wasn’t always a shield. Sometimes, it was something you had to survive. I didn’t have the vocabulary for it then, but I understood something essential: systems designed to protect often fail the very people who need them most. That revelation didn’t paralyze me. It propelled me. Raised in a single-parent, immigrant household, I began to equate legal knowledge with proximity to power. I saw how delayed paperwork meant missed medical care, how overcomplicated processes overlooked working mothers like mine. These early realities shaped my understanding of justice and how it affected my family everyday. My Iranian heritage serves as a constant reminder that liberty isn’t guaranteed—it’s something you fight for. So I started fighting. As Vice Chair of the Texas High School Democrats, I led a coalition of over 950 students, transforming passion into policy workshops, bipartisan civic events, and digital advocacy campaigns. To me, leadership has never been about titles—it’s about translation into accessibility: turning institutional silence into a chorus of powerful, diverse voices. I learned that leadership is often forged not in triumph, but in tension. There were many moments when quitting would have been easier—when our youth-led advocacy was dismissed as naïve, when my family’s financial strain made volunteering feel like a luxury, when political discourse turned vicious and deeply personal, especially for a girl with an ethnic surname like mine. I chose to persevere, anchoring myself in the belief that even in the harshest silence, conviction speaks for itself. Interning for Representative Johnson’s campaign deepened this resolve. Through firsthand experience in grassroots advocacy, I learned to engage with my community in ways that were both strategic and personal. One of my primary roles involved working with the voter registration board, where I drew on my background to advocate for multilingual voter education in the most commonly spoken languages in our county. This experience inspired Civic Bloom—a project I founded to help immigrant families navigate legal systems through accessible, multilingual support. It empowers communities by breaking down civic processes, from naturalization to voting, into clear, actionable steps. Currently studying Government and International Relations, I plan to pursue constitutional and civil rights law. Through this path, I hope to shape policies that reflect the highest ideals of our nation. Public service isn’t a detour in my life—it’s the blueprint. It’s how I translate pain into purpose, exclusion into empowerment. I’ve led not just by standing in front, but by holding the door open—again and again—for those who were told they didn’t even belong in the room. When systematic injustice closes doors, I’ve learned to build my own—and make sure they stay wide open for posterity.

Eyes squinting with determination, I sat at the kitchen table, imagining the light-colored walls around me transforming into the halls of the Supreme Court. At eleven years old, I was already convinced I wanted to become an attorney. My client? My grandmother. My tools? A purple (outrageously glittery) binder, a printout of Form N-400, and a firm belief that Google and I could figure this out. I pored over every instruction as the binder filled with handwritten notes. I could barely spell words like “naturalization,” but I could define them better than the Oxford Dictionary: a chance. For my mother and me, it meant keeping my grandmother with us in America. It meant stability. It felt like a sliver of justice—reclaiming a piece of the life we had left behind in Iran. Immigrating to the land of opportunity came at a cost. My mother gave up everything she knew: family gatherings, hearing our mother tongue in grocery stores, every comfort of our old life. I gave up the ease of childhood to help carry the weight of a new start. In America, education and supporting my mother shaped my character. My four-year-long battle with bureaucracy didn’t help my grandmother become a citizen. A travel ban on Iranian nationals blocked her path, no matter how carefully I had filled out the forms. But the process taught me something more lasting: the law—confusing, rigid, and often unforgiving—holds immense power. The frustration I felt at the outcome made me think: maybe, with enough grit and a few neon highlighters, I could use that power not just for my family, but for others too. Since then, my life’s goal has become nearly concrete: to dismantle barriers that keep marginalized communities unheard and rebuild systems in the language of access and dignity. At UT Austin, I am pursuing a Government major on the Pre-Law track, with plans to specialize in international human rights and civil law. I’m especially driven to work at the intersection of immigration and gender justice, shaping human rights frameworks that protect those most often excluded—refugee women, undocumented survivors of abuse, and children displaced by conflict. Outside of the classroom, I have founded Civic Bloom, a legal literacy project that helps individuals navigate immigration paperwork, college applications, housing and banking processes, and voter registration, in multiple languages. Through community workshops and policy advocacy—including my leadership in a statewide youth civic initiative—I’ve worked to center accessibility as a pathway to justice in my community. Alongside this project, I launched Avaye Ketab, a charity distributing English literacy resources to underserved communities across the Middle East. With over 800 books donated and partnerships with three local businesses, the project has expanded educational access in rural regions, especially in my home country. This offers children who have long been denied the privilege of dreaming a renewed chance to aspire toward global opportunities. Through programs like UT’s Bridging Pathways initiative, I have the privilege of expanding these efforts alongside my academic growth and continuing to empower communities through the power of perspective, education, and a lasting commitment to equity. Though my kitchen table no longer looks like the Supreme Court, I still see it as the place where my purpose began—holding a glittery binder and a head full of questions, catalysts of a curiosity and drive that kept growing. Higher education is not just my path forward; it’s the next step in fulfilling the very promise I made at eleven years old: I will always fight for my "client". Only now, my grandmother's case represents the millions of lives I will work to change.

Squinting at the government form before me, I dutifully practiced my signature nearly ten times before signing the official papers—even though the forms weren’t mine, and the cursive letters didn’t spell out my name. I was ten, helping my grandmother apply for U.S. citizenship; translating Persian into English, stumbling over legal terms I couldn’t pronounce, eagerly asking Google questions like “what is a 1040 form?”. These became habits I acquired all while pretending I wasn’t extremely afraid of making a mistake. My mother hovered nearby, eyes drooping low after being exhausted from a 12 hours shift but still smiling reassuringly, trusting me to decipher the intricacies of a language she didn’t fully understand. That moment—the weight of a pen determining my family’s future—marked the unofficial beginning of my college journey. My mother, a hard-working single parent and new immigrant, believed in education with the same urgency of making our rent and groceries. Every day for as long as I can remember, she reminded me, “Balatar az arezoohat arezoo kon”—a Farsi phrase meaning, “Dream bigger than your wildest dreams.” She has dedicated her life to the pursuit of my passions, becoming both my fiercest supporter and most honest critic. Being the first in my family to pursue higher education in America has meant becoming not just a student, but also a translator, a researcher, and often the family’s unofficial attorney—years before I’ll ever step into law school. Navigating my identity and culture in this country didn’t just expose me to the intricacies of the system; it awakened a calling: to pursue justice from within. My academic journey has been shaped by both necessity and ambition. Instead of summer camps, I grew up with immigration appointments. Instead of expensive tutors, I had YouTube—and the thrill of piecing together what I needed like I was solving a mystery case. Most recently, I’ve advocated in two languages, drafted legal appeals for relatives, and led community workshops on immigrant rights. Pursuing higher education, I will be majoring in Government with a minor in International Relations at UT Austin on the pre-law track. Through the incredible opportunities there, I hope to expand my charity, Avaye Ketab, to continue making English literacy resources accessible to underserved students across the Middle East. I also plan to grow my legal accessibility initiative, Civic Bloom, an app designed to provide immigrant communities with clear, multilingual legal education, especially regarding immigration, workers’ rights, and navigating public systems. Being first-generation means entering rooms where no one anticipated your presence—but leaving them with the determination to hold the door open for others. Over time, I’ve come to understand that my education is not merely a personal achievement, but a commitment. Every classroom I enter, every policy I analyze, every vision I form for the future is shaped by the strength and sacrifice of those who came before me. Their resilience fuels my purpose; their hopes remind me that I am not merely pursuing opportunity, I am creating it. This scholarship would do more than ease financial burden. It would recognize a journey that began quietly, with a child hunched over a kitchen table, translating legal jargon she didn’t yet understand but would grow to love. It would support a student who turned family obligation into community purpose, who sees every signature as something more than paperwork. I may have started by signing my beloved grandmother's name, but with your support, I will spend my life writing my own—on national policy, international human rights cases, and in service of those who, like my family once did, deserve to be heard, understood, and empowered.

Democracy is best served hot, preferably with spicy tamales, homemade chai, and warm chocolate chip cookies. At least, that’s how it felt at the voter registration drives I organized in my county—less like a formal government effort, and more like a neighborhood gathering where everyone was finally invited to sit at the table. Of all the community civic events I’ve helped lead, those drives meant the most to me. As the youngest member of my county’s Voter Registration Committee, I wanted to bring something new to the table. Pretty early on, I realized that while our intent to expand voter outreach was good, the execution didn’t reflect our actual community. Many people would walk in, take one look at a stack of forms in English, and quietly walk out. So, I proposed we research what our residents’ first languages were and use that data to offer an array of translated materials and utilize the skills of multilingual volunteers. We found the most commonly spoken first languages in our area were English, Spanish, Arabic, Farsi, Hindi, and Urdu. After that, we got to work. I helped coordinate translations, recruited speakers of each language, and redesigned our outreach to feel welcoming—not intimidating. I especially remember my interaction with an older woman at our first Voter Registration and Education event. She leaned on the door, glancing around nervously. I walked over with a smile and asked, “Can I help you with anything?” She hesitated. “I don’t speak a lot English. I see registration erm... here?” I asked her what her native language is, and promptly handed her a form in Urdu. “You absolutely can! We’re here for you.” She blinked, eyes wide as she held a voter registration form as well as a pamphlet about community initiatives on the ballot. After reading the packets and filling out the form with the help of a volunteer fluent in Urdu, she turned to the volunteer and said something quietly in Urdu. They both laughed, then looked over at me. The volunteer smiled and translated: “She said, ‘This is the first time I feel like this country wants me to vote—and I’ve been a citizen for eight years!’” That moment hit me. It wasn’t about the form or the translation, it was about what this process represented. For her, and for so many others, it was proof that she mattered in a system that often felt inaccessible and isolating. Because of this experience, I created Civic Bloom, a legal literacy and civic education initiative for immigrant and first-generation families. Inspired by helping my grandmother apply for citizenship when I was ten, Civic Bloom helps people fill out forms for things like voter registration, DACA renewal, and citizenship—always with the same values I carried into the drives: language access, cultural respect, and warmth. I’ve also continued leading in a statewide youth political organization, mobilizing students and pushing for more inclusive civic education in schools. Moments like the kind lady at the voter event are the reason I continue my mission. My dream is to empower as many people as I can to truly believe in justice. I want school gyms and public libraries filled with the sounds of different languages, with people who finally believe their voice matters. Because once they do, they don’t just vote--they advocate, they organize, they lead. They bloom.

I was born into a world where the rhythm of my mother’s Farsi lullabies at home intertwined with the structured cadence of English grammar drills at school. Farsi, my first language, cradled me in heritage, warmth, and art. English, on the other hand, was the language of academia, public discourse, and assimilation. Immigrating to America in 2015, I quickly learned that fluency is not just about knowing the right words—it is about strengthening the power of your perspective. This linguistic duality did not fracture my identity; rather, it enriched and expanded it. Inheriting this identity gave me the instincts of a diplomat, the adaptability of a linguist, and—on occasion—impeccable comedic timing accompanied by the lifelong challenge of untangling one culture’s logic from another’s poetry. Once, I translated “break a leg” into Farsi to explain what we said before theatre rehearsals, and my aunt gasped, clutched her chest, and promptly exclaimed "zaboonet ro ghoort bede"—“swallow your tongue”—before whispering a fervent prayer to shield me from fractured bones. That moment was just one of countless I experience every day—reminders that language is never just about words, but about the worlds they carry. These daily encounters have deepened my awareness of how people navigate systems, borders, and belonging, and they planted the earliest seeds of the career I now envision. I plan to graduate from the University of Texas at Austin with a double major in Government and International Relations on the pre-law track. My ultimate aspiration is to become a human rights and immigration attorney—a vocation born not only of intellectual passion, but of a deeply personal sense of responsibility. I intend to advocate for asylum seekers, migrants, and stateless individuals whose voices are often dismissed or distorted in legal and political arenas. Language, I’ve come to understand, can either be a tool of liberation or a weapon of exclusion; I choose to wield it as the former. After graduation, I hope to work with international NGOs or legal aid organizations supporting displaced communities, then pursue a JD in international human rights law to advocate in my clients’ languages and help build legal systems that center people, not bureaucracy. My love for language reaches far beyond nativity. It was my freshman Spanish teacher, Ms. McGhee, who first encouraged me to see language as a gateway to connection, empathy, and empowerment. Her passion inspired me to continue learning and to explore new cultures through new tongues. I am currently studying Spanish, Arabic, and German. Spanish allows me to connect more deeply with immigrant communities in Texas, many of whom are navigating the immigration system under immense pressure. Arabic gives me insight into the legal and cultural frameworks of the Middle East, regions central to my identity and today’s human rights landscape. German sharpens my critical thinking through its legacy of political theory and allows me to dream of joining my cousin in Berlin, working alongside her in a country shaped by Goethe’s words and Kant's questions. To be bilingual is to carry layered histories, to have the courage of speaking truths that often defy direct translation. I’ve learned that language can confuse, comfort, or make someone laugh—but more importantly, it can restore dignity. After nearly a decade of serving as my family’s unofficial idiom translator (and interpreter of just about everything else—), I’m still translating, not just phrases, but lived experiences, fears, and aspirations. I am not just learning how to speak to people; I am learning how to stand with them. I intend to spend my life turning language into shelter and transforming justice into something that transcends linguistic barriers.

My interest in public service began with a question I couldn’t ignore: Why do systems designed to protect so often fail the very people who need them most? That question has guided every step of my journey—from student advocacy to state leadership, from local political organizing to my future pursuit of constitutional law. As Vice Chair of the Texas High School Democrats, I’ve worked to lead an organization of over 950 active student members into organized advocacy. I’ve organized efforts to improve civic education, challenged voter suppression tactics that disproportionately affect young and marginalized communities, and seen firsthand how policy decisions—often made without student input—profoundly shape the lives of those still too young to cast a ballot. Through leading this organization, I’ve helped coordinate virtual town halls connecting students with Democratic candidates for state and national office, including the Harris presidential campaign. I interned with Congressional Representative Julie Johnson’s campaign, where I saw how targeted, community-based outreach builds long-term political trust. The most important takeaway from that internship was the power of bipartisanship in government: real change isn’t built on party lines but rather on shared American values, strategic collaboration, and the willingness to listen across difference. I’ve worked alongside Gen Z activists, including those behind viral moments—like the now-famous “1 Democrat vs. 32 Republicans” YouTube seminar—to amplify youth perspectives on the national stage. Connecting student activists with those making an impact effectively grew our organization's outreach and inspired many. Beyond events, I help write and distribute newsletters to keep members informed and politically engaged, as well as leading policy workshops to break down state propositions, turning complex legislation into an actionable and attainable field for first-time voters. Though I’ve not yet cast a ballot, I’ve spent years shaping the conditions under which others do. Leading, organizing, and educating have shown me that political power is not just held—it’s built, nurtured, and defended. In a system too often inaccessible to the young, I’ve worked to open doors, demystify policy, and remind institutions that legitimacy is earned through inclusion. My generation may be underestimated, but we are not waiting our turn. We are already at the table and we are writing, organizing, and reimagining what democracy can be. Raised in a single-parent, immigrant household, I learned early that the law is not merely theory; it is proximity to power and protection—or lack thereof. I saw how bureaucratic systems could delay access to essentials like education and healthcare, and my Iranian background reminded me of the privilege to exercise freedom of speech on a path to justice. Justice is not just a pillar of American democracy—it’s its most enduring aspiration. That ideal is what draws me to the field: the chance to help shape a system where fairness isn’t theoretical, but lived and felt by all. This clarity cultivated my pursuit of constitutional law. I have no interest in preserving precedent for tradition’s sake. I believe the Constitution must evolve to meet the needs of those it once excluded. Its promises were selective; I want to help fulfill them universally. To me, law is both shield and scalpel—capable of defending rights and dismantling injustice. I want to master both. In the long term, I plan to study civil rights law and serve in public office. Whether shaping legislation or defending it, I aim to build systems that serve with integrity, equity, and intention. Public service, to me, is not a temporary pursuit. It is the framework around which I have built my future. It is how I make meaning from my past, and how I intend to change what’s possible for others.

For me, community service began with a suitcase of books and a question: what happens when stories reach the places they’ve never been allowed to go? I founded my charity, Avaye Ketab, to find out. We collected English language resources and distributed them across underserved communities across Iran, where libraries are often locked behind politics and poverty. We didn’t just send books; we provided a window into the future for these children, a promise that someone believes they deserve more than to merely survive—they deserve imagination, they deserve to dream. This work taught me that accessibility is at the root of both freedom and justice, core values I will uphold as I pursue higher education in both politics and the legal field. Since then, I’ve deepened my commitment to advocacy through civic organizing, tutoring, and interning with a congressional campaign. My focus now lies in criminal justice and gender equity, where I hope to expand access to legal and educational resources for underserved communities. Avaye Ketab is just the beginning. My service began with stories, but it will continue through action: by building systems that protect justice, uplift diversity, and ensure empowerment.

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, liminality is defined as “the quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a transition.” It is the state of being on the threshold—not quite here, not quite there. Reflecting on my childhood and adolescence, I recognize that my identity and aspirations were shaped in this space. Between languages: I speak Farsi at home, reciting poems from the Shahnameh and debating politics with my grandparents. Everywhere else, I am American; I delve into U.S. history, waltz through libraries and museums, and write my poetry in English. Between cultures: where my Iranian roots ground me and America teaches me how to grow. I have long pondered these “betweens,” but the most pressing one now is financial: will I be able to afford the cost of my dream college, or will I have to carry the weight of debt as I try to pursue a life of service and justice? Living in this liminal space, I am constantly balancing hope and hardship, past and possibility. But it is here, on this threshold, that I’ve discovered the power of my perspective, the depth of my determination, and the courage to dream. My dream is to study law not just as a set of rules, but as a living system that must be constantly reimagined to serve those it was built to protect. Growing up, I watched my mother, a single immigrant woman, navigate a legal and economic landscape that felt designed to overwhelm her. I saw how systems fail people because of inaccessibility and fine lines that exclude individuals that often need the most help. I want to be the person who changes that narrative. At Northeastern University, I hope to research gendered carcerality, focusing on how incarceration uniquely impacts women—especially those who are wrongfully accused, underrepresented, or imprisoned as political dissidents in Middle Eastern countries. I hope to start programs that offer pro bono legal services to incarcerated women and work toward implementing trauma-informed therapy and rehabilitation programs in underfunded women’s prisons across the country. I plan to minor in International Relations to explore women’s advocacy beyond borders and use my voice to uplift those silenced both in the U.S. and across the Middle East. Justice is not blind. She sees, she remembers, and she waits to be redefined by those who refuse to look away. I intend to be one of them. My resilience has shaped my dreams and empowered me to be an active member of my community. I’ve served as the youngest member of my county’s voter registration committee, led conversations on equity as Vice Chair of a statewide political youth organization, and volunteered as both a music and academic tutor. I’ve pursued independent research projects under the guidance of my teachers and completed an internship with a congressional representative’s campaign. These aren’t just extracurriculars; they’re promises I’ve made to myself and to the people I hope to serve. In the future, I intend to continue this work on a broader scale, using legal understanding and policy to uplift underrepresented voices. Liminality once felt like a space of uncertainty, but now I’ve come to see it as a space of possibility. From this threshold, I can see where I’ve come from and where I need to go. And I know, without a doubt, that I am ready to walk forward. As I look at the Dictionary once more, I highlight a new word. Forge: To move forward steadily and with purpose, often through difficulty or uncertainty.

Many say justice is blind in our world today, that she doesn’t exist at all—but I believe she does; she just needs high-prescription glasses to be seen through a clearer lens. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t think our world is broken; rather, humanity is built on intentional cracks, and so too are our societies. Systems meant to serve often exclude, policies designed to protect frequently oppress, and the fine print in laws too often restricts rather than liberates. Yet, I refuse to accept these injustices as permanent, because our ability to amplify the power of our perspective is an inherent right—one that enables us to improve these systems, a right to which I hope to dedicate my life’s work. I grew up watching my mother navigate an unfamiliar world, a single parent and new immigrant who fought every obstacle in her way to raise me in a home filled with love, hope, and the power of femininity. She built a world where strength was woven into every sacrifice, where books lined the walls like silent mentors. In her resilience, I found my own. As she spent nights guiding me along the delicate verses of Persian poetry through the Shahname or urging me to unravel the complexities of the evening news, I held onto each moment, knowing they were pieces of her wisdom, passed down with intention. She is my greatest teacher, carving lessons in everyday moments. Math was taught between grocery aisles, where she noticed my uncertainty and turned percentage discounts into quick, confident calculations. Curiosity was nurtured through our routine trips to the library, where my love for literature bloomed. My mother’s insistence on chasing what I love led me to find role models in Sotomayor and Ginsburg. Becoming a self-proclaimed history aficionado, I saw the fight for justice everywhere: in headlines comprised of silences where action should have been. Even as a kid, I couldn’t stand still. At 11, I pushed to expand reduced lunch access at my elementary school. I marched in D.C., my voice swallowed in a sea of thousands, but knowing it still mattered. In those moments, I understood that this is my purpose, to fight for others, for the Constitution, for the ideals my mother instilled in me. As I became more deeply involved in leading statewide youth civic engagement, my commitment to pursuing law solidified with the understanding that justice is not an abstract dream but something we build with each action. As a political science major with aspirations for law school, I aim to work at the intersection of legal advocacy and policy reform. Approaching the law through a perspective shaped by policy and political understanding is essential to being a strong advocate, an interest I have cultivated through leading political groups in my community, organizing voter registration drives, engaging in statewide initiatives, and interning on national senatorial campaigns. My focus will be on ensuring that laws are implemented equitably, closing loopholes that perpetuate injustice, and making legal resources accessible to marginalized communities. Specifically, I hope to research gendered carcerality during my undergraduate years at Northeastern University, offering programs for Pro Bono legal services to incarcerated women who may be wrongfully accused, as well as implementing therapy programs in underfunded Women's prisons across the country. Additionally, I hope to implement my Middle Eastern background in my education by minoring in International Relations, exploring Women's advocacy internationally. Justice is not blind, nor is she absent. She is waiting to be seen, redefined, and rebuilt by those willing to challenge the cracks and demand clarity. I intend to be one of them.

Forty-eight meters above ground, half the world was hanging below my feet. Isfahan nesfeh jahan —Isfahan is half the world. Towering over Naqshe-Jahan Square from the terrace of the Ali Qapu palace, I quickly understood the ancient city’s namesake. The smell of the Bazaar’s spices infiltrated my senses, while the overlapping hum of a distant musical performance completed the ambiance. Inside, the Safavid frescoes stretched across the honeycomb ceiling. The fresco on the left presented a woman swaying in the wind, a vibrant bird perched in her hands. Just as I became immersed in the palace and the city’s symphony, the illusion shattered. The space where the woman on the right once danced to an ancient hymn was hauntingly empty, robbing the pair of duality. My inquiries revealed that her whereabouts were unknown, with just her feet remaining she was a fragment of a once-dancing soul. In the faded 18th-century frescoes, I saw a reflection of my own fear: losing myself in fragmentation, erasing the essence of who I am. Like the incomplete frescoes, immigrating to America in 2015 was an uprooting, scattering my life into the unknown. Alienation greeted me at every turn as I navigated a foreign world of unfamiliar faces and unspoken rules. The dimly lit school library became my refuge, a quiet sanctuary where I began to rebuild. Percy Jackson, Nancy Drew, 2010’s Almanacs—American culture seeped into my veins as each page pieced me back together, translating the world around me into a language I understood. Reading ignited a curiosity that grew into a passion for justice, inspiring me to explore the historical roots of my identity and empower others through education. Witnessing the scarcity of literacy resources for children in rural Middle Eastern communities, I recognized the need to create pathways to global opportunity. Providing English-language resources opens countless doors, empowering children to broaden their aspirations by adopting a global perspective. Reminiscing on the bustling rhythms of Naqshe-Jahan, I named my charity Avaye Ketab—The Melody of Literature. Book drives, community events, countless hours at the post office; every step restored me as I built something new. Through this work, it became clear that identity transcends borders and labels. Like the swaying women upon the walls, I have found that beauty emerges when we piece together our fragments, crafting a destiny entirely our own. I am Iranian, I am American. I am a lover of literature, drawn to the magical power of words to forge connections. I take pride in my legislative advocacy, turning passion into progress. I am a Sequoia tree, deeply rooted in my passions yet growing ever upward, striving to leave an impact that outlasts me. Just two months ago, I stood atop Ali Qapu palace, smiling at the un-restored fragments of swaying women. As I stand at the edge of my future, I see the fragments of my past morphed into a foundation of resilience and purpose, driving me to navigate uncharted paths with confidence. Isfahan nesfeh Jahan —Isfahan is half the world. With half the world beneath my feet, I will jump—ready for what's to come, ready for more.

A Connections puzzle is more than sorting words: it is a modern embodiment of art, a search for harmony in contrast, a tracing of the invisible threads that bind the fleeting to the eternal. The way we group things is the way we make sense of the world, like the seasons turning—gradual, inevitable, yet always catching us off guard, whether with the sudden bloom of vibrant flowers or the hush of a winter wonderland’s first snow. My puzzle is a reflection of who I am, shaped by heritage and ambition, by what I have inherited and what I have yet to create, by the quiet realizations that anchor me and the sudden changes that propel me forward. 4x4 Grid: Hafez Rumi Ferdowsi Sa’adi Post-It Notes Google Docs Midnight Caffeine Gavel Brief Justice Precedent Uno Reverse Plot Twist Déjà Vu Foreshadowing Category 1: Persian Poets (Hafez, Rumi, Ferdowsi, Sa’adi) Persian poetry is more than something I grew up with: it is a language of the soul, a whisper of human emotion from the past that still resonates. My mother recites Hafez’s Divan as if unraveling fate itself, each verse a thread connecting me to centuries of wisdom. Rumi reminds me that the search for meaning is endless, a dance between longing and belonging. Ferdowsi’s Shahnameh preserves the legends of my ancestors, a testament to the power of words to guard history itself. And Sa’adi? He teaches that prose can be both sharp as a blade and soft as silk. These poets have shaped not just my love for Persian culture and literature but my understanding of the world; serving as bridges between past and future. Category 2: The Academic Survival Kit (Post-It Notes, Google Docs, Midnight, Caffeine) This category perfectly encapsulates my study habits: organized chaos. Post-It Notes cover my desk like a detective's board, Google Docs hold the secrets of my essay drafts, midnight is when inspiration strikes (unfortunately), and caffeine fuels my academic ambitions. Efficiency? Questionable. Effectiveness? Undeniable. Category 3: Law and Justice (Gavel, Brief, Justice, Precedent) A nod to the future I will build through education. These are more than legal terms, they are the foundations of advocacy. A gavel does not just strike wood; it commands order, signaling the moment justice is decided. A brief is more than a document; it is a story, a case crafted with precision and hours of determination, where each word has the power to persuade. Justice is not an abstract ideal; it is a pursuit, a struggle, an obligation. Precedent is a powerful reminder that change is product of evolution, that the fight for justice is both a reflection of the past and a promise to the future. Law is not just about rules—it is about people, narratives, and the deliberate intertwining of reason and righteousness. Category 4: Plot Twists & Power Moves (Uno Reverse, Plot Twist, Déjà Vu, Foreshadowing) Life, much like a well-crafted novel, refuses to be straight-forward. Uno Reverse is karma’s favorite party trick, flipping the script unexpectedly. Plot Twist is that moment when everything you thought you knew gets thrown out the window: thrilling and sometimes mildly concerning. Déjà Vu reminds me of the beauty of human emotion. Foreshadowing is an element of every excellent fairytale ending, hard work transforming into the fruits of success. Conclusion At first glance, these categories may seem fragmented. But together, they tell a story—one of relentless curiosity and joy. This puzzle, much like me, is a little unpredictable, a little chaotic, sometimes poetic, sometimes logical, but ever-evolving. And in the end, the pieces fit. They always do.

[Scene opens: A dimly lit bedroom, the soft glow of a phone screen casting shadows on a restless face. A girl lounges on her bed, curly hair spilling over her pillow, her brows knit in quiet frustration. Stacks of AP Psychology homework sit untouched beside her, emails piling up on her screen. She wants to type it all out—to articulate the exhaustion, the unfairness of financial barriers keeping her from taking the AP tests she worked so hard for. But instead, she exhales, pressing her phone against her chest. Tonight, she chooses silence. Tonight, she chooses peace.] [Note to the actor: Good luck capturing all that with just one sigh.] "emails i can’t send" hums through the speakers, the soundtrack to late-night overthinking. Cut to: a city street, wind whipping through my hair, laughter spilling into the night. "Espresso" kicks in, the bass vibrating through my chest, the world spinning in a montage of newfound confidence. Heartbreak. Reinvention. Self-discovery. Play, rewind, repeat. If my life were a coming-of-age film, Sabrina Carpenter would have written the score, and I’d be running to keep up with the beat. Her career is a testament to transformation, a journey from wide-eyed teenage optimism to the self-assured, genre-bending artist she is today. That evolution mirrors my own: learning to navigate ambition, heartbreak, and self-discovery while finding the balance between who I am and who the world expects me to be. I first connected with Sabrina through "emails i can’t send", an album that feels like a diary with pages left open, ink smudged by hesitation and hard-won growth. When I started high school, I gravitated toward her softer, more introspective songs. "because i liked a boy" taught me the painful reality of public perception, how narratives are spun, and how judgment is passed before you even have the chance to explain yourself. As someone pursuing law and policy, where perception often dictates power, I’ve seen how easily voices, especially those of young women, can be dismissed or distorted. Yet, Sabrina never let anyone else write her story for her, and that inspired me to pave my own destiny. As I grew older, her music evolved with me. "Espresso" is effortlessly bold, the musical embodiment of self-assurance that inspires me to be the best version of myself. The melody equates to the feeling of walking into a room with certainty, unapologetically taking up space. Now, as a senior chasing my dreams, I’m drawn to the confidence Sabrina exudes. "Espresso" reminds me I have every right to believe in my future. Like her, I am learning to embrace every version of myself: the introspective thinker, the outspoken advocate, the girl who sometimes doubts but never stops pushing forward. Beyond music, Sabrina’s career has shown me that reinvention isn’t something to fear, It’s a cause for celebration. She defies limitation, embracing the unpredictability of artistry and evolution. As I navigate my own ambitions, I see myself in her ability to transform. The way she shifts between sounds, spaces, and versions of herself reminds me that I, too, am not meant to fit into just one mold; I am able to embody my diverse aspirations. That is the real magic of Sabrina Carpenter’s impact. She doesn’t just tell a story; she keeps writing it, evolving with every lyric and every era. Just like her music, just like me, and just as routinely as the seasons changing, I keep going—toward my goals, toward a future I refuse to give up on, toward the version of myself that fights, heals, and continues to reach for the stars.

Some people move through the world like still air: quiet, undisturbed, content with the status quo. But I have never been content with stillness. As an Iranian American, I carry the weight of two worlds: one shaped by dictatorship that stifles the rich culture I am so proud of, the other by the promise of freedom. My education is more than a privilege; it is a responsibility. With every breath of opportunity, I stand for the generations of resilient women who raised me, for voices long stifled, for those who dare to dream beyond imposed limits. I am the storm that stirs the sky, the fire that refuses to smolder, the force that unsettles what is stagnant. My education is not just a means to an end; it is the wind behind my momentum, the power that will propel me toward change. With a degree in Political Science from Northeastern University, where opportunity is not just given but built, I will use law to give voice to the unheard—particularly women whose struggles are too often lost along with the whispers swallowed of the wind. I have already begun this work through Avaye Ketab, my charity dedicated to expanding English literacy access for underserved children in the Middle East. Beyond just books, Avaye Ketab is a direct challenge to the systems that silence women. In Iran, where I was born, girls are taught to shrink themselves, to obey, to accept that their futures belong to men. Public-funded education is rationed, censored, weaponized to keep them from realizing their power. By providing literacy resources to young girls, I am arming them with something no regime can take away: knowledge, autonomy, the power of perspective. Yet Avaye Ketab did more than just empower the girls I worked with, it transformed me. It taught me that politics is not confined to legislative halls but rather thrives in everyday conversations, in the books a child reads, in the spaces where women are told they do not belong, in small acts of defiance that amount to revolutions of thought. I saw firsthand how denying education keeps women trapped in cycles of inequality, how silencing voices in classrooms translates into silencing them in courtrooms, in hospitals, in government. I refuse to accept that reality. I focused Avaye Ketab on women not only because they are disproportionately affected by literacy barriers, but because I wanted to challenge the Western notion that feminism is solely legislative. Feminism is not just winning seats in Congress or breaking glass ceilings in Fortune 500 companies; it is ensuring that the most vulnerable—girls facing child marriage, women denied bodily autonomy, mothers with no access to education—are given the tools to reclaim their futures. My career will build upon this mission as I pursue law and policy to dismantle the structures that deny justice, to create policies that do more than exist on paper but are lived, breathed, and felt by those they are meant to serve. Through my education in political science and law, I will provide pro bono legal services to women, craft inclusive policies, and advocate for human rights on a global scale. Ambition alone is not enough. Without financial support, my dreams remain distant. This scholarship would not just lift a financial burden, it would be an investment in the work I will do to uplift women globally. It would allow me to continue expanding Avaye Ketab and to dedicate my life to ensuring no woman’s dream is buried by circumstance. I am not content with still air. I will rise, resist, and ignite movements that reach far beyond myself.

If Brat is a manifesto of controlled chaos, then “So I” is its most stunning contradiction. The album is all sirens and strobe lights, a hyper-pop battlefield of defiance; but then comes "So I”, floating in like a neon ghost. It’s hypnotic, trance-like, and drenched in vulnerability. I envision this song by remembering moments where I have wandered around big cities, realizing that my sole existence is a unique mark on a planet I share with billions of people; the melody reminds me of stepping off a dance floor feeling joyous and euphoric, but settling down rather quicker than you'd expect into a calm state of homeostasis. That’s why it’s my favorite: it captures the whiplash between confidence and uncertainty, between being untouchable and terrifyingly real. To me, the song captures the common human experience of rather inevitable collision between the illusion of invincibility and the stark realization of our own vulnerability: where the feeling of being untouchable crumbles as reality sets in. Charli XCX has built her world on bravado: “I’m so high voltage, I’m so outrageous”—but “So I” strips that down. It’s her whispering into the void, laced with auto-tuned melancholy, the kind of sadness that doesn’t need much sophistication to be overwhelming and relatable. The song pulses with repetition, almost like it’s convincing itself of its own words. “So I, so I, so I” cycles like a mantra, but beneath it, there’s hesitation. It reminds me of myself: I am forever moving forward, driven by ambition and resilience, but still haunted by the quiet moments where I wonder if I’m doing enough, if I am good enough. I am reminded of nights I spend thinking of financial burdens; will my talent be enough for pursuing my dreams, or will tuition costs be an untouchable obstacle? I find solace in remembering my mother's favorite saying: "Where there's a will, there's a way". Like Charli, I thrive in motion. I’m drawn to the electric energy of politics and justice, my mind racing with ways to make change. But during brief moments, late at night, I feel doubts creep in. “So I” meets me there, in that liminal space between action and reflection, between external confidence and internal doubt. It doesn’t resolve anything, rather it just lets me sit in it, and sometimes, that’s enough. Reflection has transformed my doubts by allowing me to evolve my negative thoughts into gratitude, and "So I" reminds me that the fleeting moments of fear, anxiety, or negativity make me human! Maybe that’s the real magic of the song; It doesn’t need a climax because it thrives in understanding the power of uncertainty—and just like Charli, just like me, and just as routinely as the seasons changing, it keeps going.

“You mean I can keep this?” she whispered in Farsi, tenderly cradling a worn copy of Matilda as though it were pure gold. Her eyes were alight with joy and disbelief, stirring tears within mine. In her remote Iranian village, English literacy resources were seldom more than ghosts of possibility, vanishing into the void of an extremely underfunded public school system. This interaction planted the seed for creating my charity, Avaye Ketab. Rallying a team of 25 volunteers, I built campaigns to send stories soaring across borders. Through these efforts and partnerships with local businesses, over 700 books have found homes in orphanages, hospitals, and schools across the Middle East. Literacy is more than the ability to read; it is the defiance of limitation. I want my charity to be the hand outstretched in the dark, a force of kindness that transcends borders, ensuring that no child’s dream is buried by circumstance. My academic and professional ambitions are deeply entwined with this journey of service. I am eager to pursue an education in Political science and international relations, with an emphasis on international human rights law. Understanding the intricate interplay of political structures, social inequities, and cultural dynamics is essential to dismantling the barriers that confine so many through policy action. I aspire to pursue a career in international law, working to develop innovative policies and educational initiatives through a position at the United Nations that confronts pressing challenges such as gender-based violence and unjust political incarceration. The resilient women in my life have indelibly shaped these aspirations. My grandmother, who withstood the ravages of revolution and war, and my mother, a courageous immigrant who nurtured me as a single parent, have each instilled in me the strength and conviction to use my perspective in the pursuit of justice. Their examples coupled with my Iranian American identity fuel my determination to create change that transcends personal experience and touches a global community. Building on the grassroots foundation of Avaye Ketab, I envision expanding the charity’s reach to an international scale. By integrating community-driven initiatives with rigorous academic research, I aim to design comprehensive programs that promote literacy, advance women’s rights, and counter systemic violence. Collaborating with educators, policymakers, and global organizations, I hope to foster environments where education bridges divides and empowers every child to dream boldly. Every book delivered, every policy proposal crafted-–this work is not merely a contribution to my community, it is my part in the steadfast commitment to transforming lives on a global scale. My journey is a testament to the belief that compassion and knowledge are the most powerful instruments for change, and I am dedicated to a continuous journey of leaving an enduring, positive imprint on our world, propelling me forward in this path with higher education.