Once a month, each 7th-grade science class my dad teaches gets its turn to eat lunch inside his classroom. He bakes cookies for whoever shows up, tells the kind of dad jokes that make thirteen-year-olds groan and love him anyway, and asks each kid how they're actually doing. Some weeks there are more students than cookies, and they come anyway, just to be in the room with him. My dad could easily see his job as teaching kids about molecular structures or trophic pyramids, and he does that well, but he has never treated that as the main point. The point, to him, is whether a kid walks out of his classroom feeling like they belong somewhere. He's become something like a father figure to kids whose own dads are busy or absent, not because he set out to be, but because he genuinely cares whether a specific kid is having a good day. I got a preview of what that kind of care actually feels like to give, not just to receive, during my senior year. I spent hours each week as a teaching assistant in elementary music classrooms, slowly building real relationships with kids I saw week after week. On the last day of my own senior year, after I had already graduated, I came back for the whole school end-of-year assembly anyway. Sitting on the side of the gym reserved for parents and visitors, rather than students, felt strange in a way I hadn't expected. I watched myself flash across the recap video on the big screen, as well as the elementary kids sitting cross-legged on the gym floor, and as the countdown to summer break hit ten, nine, eight, my whole time at that school seemed to replay in my head at once. When the assembly ended, I started to leave but then stopped and went to find the elementary kids I knew. Three of them, from one of the music classes I had taught that year, ran up and hugged me tight, not letting go even when their teacher called them, and in that moment, I felt, firsthand, everything those months of showing up had actually built between us. They understood, the way I did, that it might be the last time we saw each other before I left for college in the US. That is the kind of impact I want to spend my career building. Deliberately, the way my dad does, not just in the one goodbye at that assembly. I want to reach students who feel like they don't quite belong, whether that's because they're a third-culture kid, into something "odd" the way I was with theatre, or simply new somewhere for the hundredth time. Music has a way of making room for exactly those kids, since it doesn't require you to already belong somewhere to participate. I will likely return to Shanghai after finishing my degree, and studying music education at Central Washington University is how I plan to build that future there: an elementary classroom where a kid who feels a little too odd, too new, or too in-between finally gets to make noise on purpose and be met with someone who notices, and keeps noticing, long after the assembly ends.

The reason I'm going into music education in college is not because I want to just teach elementary music, but because I want to build a classroom where a kid who's been told to sit still all day finally gets to move, make noise, and express who she is through rhythm or song. Music, more than most subjects, gives a child a way to say something true about herself without needing the right words for it yet. I want that kind of classroom to exist for every student who walks into it, whether she's the loudest kid in the room or the one who's never raised her hand. I know how much that kind of space matters because of my own experience. I attended seven schools growing up, from Korean public schools with almost no access to music instruction, to a bilingual Chinese program, to an international school in Shanghai where I finally found a music department that took my passion for singing seriously. In the schools without that kind of program, I remember feeling like a part of myself wasn't allowed to show up at school. Walking down the hallway, listening to the chatter of other students, I would want to hum or sing the way I did at home, but I stayed quiet, worried I'd be judged. In class, I felt like I couldn't even raise my hand to ask a question, since we were expected to simply listen and accept what we were taught. When I finally landed somewhere that treated music, and curiosity, as worth developing, it changed how I felt about learning altogether, not just about music. That belief was confirmed during my senior year, when I spent two to three hours a week working as a teaching assistant in elementary music classrooms, grades two through four. I started by simply observing, getting to know the students, and letting them get used to having me in the room. Slowly, I joined in games, then helped lead them, then took on leading rhythm activities and recorder warmups on my own. By the end of the year, I was conducting an instrument and singing piece at the third-grade showcase, the final concert of the year. Watching students I had spent months building trust with perform confidently in front of an audience confirmed, without doubt, that I want to teach music in elementary schools. On my last day, several of them hugged me and begged me not to go, upset that I was leaving for college in the United States. I realized then how much of an impact I had made on them, and I know I will miss them just as much. That year taught me something I also learned leading my school's volunteer program, which connects high schoolers with elementary classrooms: reaching a child rarely happens through one big moment or lesson plan. It happens through small, repeated choices to show up, notice them, and make whatever they're learning feel like it belongs to them personally. On the educational side, music teaches pattern recognition, discipline, collaboration, and language skills that carry into every other subject. On the social and emotional side, it gives shy students a way to be seen without needing to raise their hand, and gives every student a shared experience of creating something together. I want every student in my classroom, regardless of background, to believe they're allowed to claim music as their own. That belief is what elementary music education gave me, eventually, and it's what I want to give back, one song and one classroom at a time.

Growing up, I was always singing, whether it was along to my first and favorite musical Hairspray playing on the TV, performing in our church's Christmas showcase, or even recording a few tracks for a Korean children's education company called Badanamu. Despite the big part music played in my life, I never expected it to lead anywhere. In Korea, where I spent most of my early childhood years, music wasn't seen as something you can chase on the side; it was something you commit to, usually starting around age six, at specialized arts schools with private lessons that my parents couldn't afford. Without that kind of start, I wistfully assumed music would always be a hobby for me, something I loved but could never actually make a living from. That assumption held until I started going to an international school in Shanghai where I spent my last two years of midddle school and all of my high school years. For the first time, I was around a music department that treated singing as a skill worth developing, not just a class period to fill. I started to wonder, cautiously, whether performance could actually be a real path for me. But the same obstacle that had shaped my whole relationship with music was still there: I couldn't afford private lessons. Competing for college spots, concert leads, or any real shot at the spotlight against students who had trained one-on-one for years felt impossible. So I made a decision that, at the time, felt like giving something up. I chose to move toward teaching instead of performing, and for a while, I resented it. It felt like I was settling for a smaller version of my dream because the bigger one was out of reach. They say those who can't do, teach. I hated that phrase, since my father, whom I respect deeply, is a teacher. Looking back, though, I somewhat believed it since I felt like my decision to teach derived purely from not being good enough or fortunate enough to become a performer. But then I helped lead my school's volunteer program. Working with younger students taught me that the role I once viewed as a fallback could actually be where I could do the most good. I know exactly what it feels like to sit outside a music program, wondering if you're allowed to want something that feels like too big of a dream, and how much it matters when someone tells you that you can make that dream yours. I want to be that person for the next student who assumes, the way I once did, that music has to stay a hobby because their family can't pay for lessons from age six. Studying music education at Central Washington University will let me build classrooms where a student's access to training isn't decided by their family's income or by how early they started. I want to find the kids who have tucked their dreams away, the ones with real talent and longing who have never been told it's worth developing, and be the reason they start believing they're allowed to chase their dream of becoming a musician. My own road to music was slow, uneven, and shaped by what I couldn't afford at every turn. But perhaps that's why I see teaching music as the chance to help students realize their dreams are actually theirs to choose, and find a kinder path to the same thing I eventually found for myself.

Ever since I was little, I always dreamt of shining on stage as a musical actress. Growing up, I would watch musicals like Hairspray over and over again, singing the songs and learning the dances. On the rare occasion I got a chance to watch a musical live, I cherished every moment and listened to the soundtrack on repeat upon my return home. I would always participate in every possible production at church and even started leading worship in the kids service. In 5th grade, I joined a choir and started taking dance lessons, dreaming of the day I would perform on the big stage. However, over time, I started to realize that chasing my passion for taking care of others would be more fulfilling than shining myself. Although the thrill from the applause received on stage and the praise and flowers received afterwards as the stage door was irreplaceable, I found even more joy and fulfillment from helping others shine. Being a part of choirs and musical theatre productions in middle and high school helped me realize that being a music teacher would allow me to chase both of my passions: music and teaching. Once I realized this, I quickly began helping out with elementary and middle school productions as a student myself. My senior year, I even got the opportunity to help out with regular daily music classes in the elementary as a teacher's assistant, and the summer leading up to my senior year, I helped out with our school's elementary department summer school as a teacher's assistant. Even after just a few days of helping out with classes and taking students to and from classes, the students quickly became attached to me and even fought over who would get the seat next to me during lunch. As someone who moved around a lot growing up and therefore struggled to find a sense of belonging, the theatre and music was somewhere I could always find a home. Even if I wasn't confident in who I was as a person, I could always tell someone else's story as an actress, and I could shine on stage with my voice. Although my first audition for a musical was an epic failure that resulted in me crying in front of all of my classmates, by the time I got to high school, I became confident in my ability as a performer and was able to land roles with solos. Through my education to become a music teacher, I hope to one day become a music teacher like one of the ones I've had who helps students feel confident in themselves and can find who they are. I hope to bring about positive change, helping students find themselves, especially those that struggle socially. I also hope to bring about justice by working in areas where students may traditionally not be given opportunities.