I stood in my dorm room in Japan at 2 AM, checking the door lock for the fifteenth time. I knew it was locked. I'd checked fourteen times already. But my brain kept screaming that maybe I'd missed something. That's when I realized this wasn't normal. The intrusive thoughts, the compulsive checking, the need for control. This was OCD, and it was taking over. Moving to Japan at eighteen triggered something I didn't see coming. The isolation hit hard. I'd sit in my dorm for entire weekends, unable to leave. Everyone else seemed fine, adapting, making friends, enjoying college. Why couldn't I? The depression crept in slowly, then all at once. Some days I couldn't get out of bed. Other nights I couldn't sleep at all, lying awake replaying every awkward interaction, every mistake I'd made. When I finally got sleep medication, I realized how bad things had gotten. The OCD came next, or maybe it was always there and depression made it worse. I developed rituals. Checking locks, counting steps, touching doorframes a specific number of times. If I didn't do it perfectly, I'd start over. I'd be late to class, stuck in my room redoing the same action until it felt "right." My concrete research won top presenter at a conference, but I couldn't enjoy it. I was too exhausted from the constant battle in my head. When I returned to Korea for Hyundai E&C, I thought changing environments would fix everything. It didn't. Depression followed me. OCD got worse with project stress. I'd spend hours after work checking and rechecking calculations I knew were correct. My coworkers thought I was thorough. They didn't know I was trapped in compulsive loops I couldn't escape. Coming to the US for my M.S./Ph.D. added another layer. Visa uncertainty, financial pressure, no safety net. It amplified everything. I finally sought help because I couldn't keep living like this. Therapy helped me understand the patterns. Medication took the edge off. But it's not cured. I still have bad days. What made it harder was cultural stigma. In Korea and Japan, you hide mental illness. You don't talk about depression or anxiety. You definitely don't admit you can't stop checking the stove. Coming to the US, where people are more open, was both relieving and terrifying. I could finally talk about it, but I also had to confront how much it had controlled my life. I share this because international grad students face unique mental health challenges people don't talk about. The isolation, visa stress, financial pressure, being far from support. It's perfect conditions for mental illness. Engineering and construction are high-pressure fields where mental health gets ignored. People burn out, struggle silently, and we pretend it's just part of the job. I'm trying to change that. I talk openly with other international students about mental health. I share resources, recommend therapists who understand visa anxiety. I'm creating spaces where grad students can admit they're struggling without feeling like failures. In construction engineering, where everyone's supposed to be tough, I want to show you can be successful while managing mental illness. Depression and OCD haven't disappeared. I still have hard days. I still catch myself in compulsive patterns. But I'm no longer suffering in silence, no longer pretending everything's fine. Mental illness doesn't disqualify you from your goals. Managing it has taught me resilience, empathy, and the importance of asking for help. Those lessons make me a better engineer, researcher, and hopefully, better support for others fighting similar battles.

I was eighteen, alone in my Nagoya University dorm room, unpacking boxes when I found my mom's kimchi at the bottom. She'd wrapped it carefully so it wouldn't leak on the plane from Korea. I just sat there and cried. Not because I missed home, though I did. But because I kept thinking: is this what they sacrificed for? Me sitting here, can't speak Japanese properly, watching everyone else belong while I'm trying to figure out how to ask where the bathroom is? That night, I had no idea what the American Dream was. I thought it meant America specifically. Turns out I was completely wrong. In Korea, everyone's dream looked identical. Good grades, good university, stable job. My parents ran an architectural firm. I watched them argue about hospital designs. My dad wanted premium materials, my mom pulled out budget spreadsheets. Practical always won. There was one path, and you either followed it or you were messing up. Japan was different but also the same. Everything had a system, a right way. My concrete research did well because I learned to follow every protocol exactly. But as an international student, I was always outside. I started tutoring other international students struggling like me. Translating lectures in our heads, always behind, wondering if we'd catch up. We helped each other because the official system wasn't helping us. Then I came to the US for my M.S./Ph.D. It's not that America is better than Korea or Japan. It's just different. Here, I could combine things. Korea's work ethic, Japan's precision, America's "figure it out yourself" approach. That's when I got it. The American Dream isn't about becoming American. It's about having freedom to build something that wouldn't fit anywhere else. But nobody talks about the hard parts. Every scholarship: "US citizens only." Every job: "Must have work authorization." My visa needs renewing every year and I never know for sure if I can stay. I can't fill out FAFSA. I check my bank account too often, calculating how many months until I run out. My parents sacrificed so I could go to Japan. Then sacrificed again for the US. And sometimes I think, am I even worth all this? Here's what I refuse to believe. That my passport decides what I'm worth. That I should feel guilty for needing help. That being a non-citizen means I can't contribute anything real. When I tutored those students in Japan, I got it. My "outsider" thing wasn't a problem. It was the qualification. I knew exactly what they were going through because I'd been there. I could show them shortcuts that took me months to find. That's the actual dream. Not just getting help, but helping the next person. Construction engineering makes sense to me because buildings don't care about citizenship. Good quality is good quality. Safety is safety. My research at UT Austin pulls from what I learned in all three countries. But I'm also trying to help other international students. Sharing scholarship lists, explaining visa stuff, connecting people to research. My parents believed education opens doors. I'm trying to hold those doors open for whoever's coming next. That first night in Japan, I cried because I felt completely alone. Now I know that's how every international student feels. The American Dream isn't about things being easy. It's about getting the chance to turn your struggles into shortcuts for someone else. My legal status will always say "non-citizen." But what I build won't stop at any border. That's the dream I'm living.

I grew up watching my parents argue in their architectural office. My father would insist on premium materials for his hospital designs. "These spaces heal people," he'd say. My mother would pull out budget spreadsheets. As a kid, I thought they were just fighting. Now I understand they were showing me what legacy actually means—not just what you build, but how it serves people long after you're gone. Legacy isn't about personal achievement. It's about what you pass forward—the knowledge you share, the opportunities you create, the bridges you build. Dr. Attoh got this. He didn't just collect three degrees in three countries; he used each experience to lift others up, moving from professor to dean to associate provost. Each role expanded his ability to open doors for students navigating new systems, like he once did. I see his journey in mine. Moving from Korea to Japan at eighteen, I had to rebuild everything—new language, different academic culture, figuring out how to belong. Then Japan to the US, starting over again. Each place taught me something I couldn't have learned elsewhere. Japan showed me systematic thinking and meticulous methodology. Korea gave me a work ethic that doesn't quit. The US is teaching me to question assumptions and make my own path. Like Dr. Attoh's three degrees, my three countries aren't separate chapters—they're layered perspectives I bring to engineering. My upbringing shaped this more than I realized. Those debates between my parents weren't just about hospital designs—they were about balancing ideals with reality. That became how I approach engineering. At Nagoya University, I loved that research had clear answers. My concrete moisture transport work earned top presenter, and I thought I'd stay in research forever. Then I worked at Hyundai E&C. The $343 million project didn't care about my clean lab data. Weather delays, worker shortages, quality problems that needed fixing now. I had to learn what my parents had been showing me all along—the best solutions come from understanding both the theoretical and the practical. Now at UT Austin doing my M.S./Ph.D., I'm thinking hard about what to continue and what to change. I want to keep Dr. Attoh's commitment to education—that hunger for knowledge and drive to share it. I want to maintain the work ethic I learned in Korea, where dedication isn't optional. And I want to keep being a bridge between cultures, helping international students through the struggles I know too well. But I also want to evolve some things. Korean work culture often equates excellence with endless hours and personal sacrifice. I watched engineers burn out at Hyundai E&C, brilliant people whose potential got cut short by unsustainable expectations. I think we can maintain high standards while recognizing that real innovation comes from people who aren't exhausted. That combining research and practice isn't abandoning the traditional path—it's making a better one. That collaboration beats competition. Dr. Attoh's journey from Ghana through three countries to academic leadership proved that legacy isn't about where you start. It's about what you do with each opportunity and how you help others along the way. His integrity didn't just guide his career—it shaped countless students' paths. That's what I want: not legacy through individual achievements, but through the doors I open, the bridges I build, and the students I support as they navigate their own journeys across cultures and fields.

Standing four stories underground at the HANA Financial Group construction site, I was supposed to be focused on the concrete pouring plan for the next day. But I kept thinking about the voids we'd found in our mockup test—air pockets below the EPS inserts that could compromise the entire Double Beam System. My supervisor wanted a quick fix, but I knew this wasn't just about passing inspection. Somewhere above this foundation, people would work for decades, trusting that we'd done this right. That's when it hit me: engineering isn't about having all the answers. It's about taking responsibility when you don't. I didn't always think this way. When I researched concrete at Nagoya University, I loved that everything had a clear answer. My work on moisture transport earned top presenter at a national conference, and I felt like I'd found my path—stay in research, keep things controlled and measurable. Then I started working at Hyundai E&C. The $343 million project didn't care about my lab protocols. We had weather delays, worker shortages, and schedules that didn't pause for problems. When workers couldn't get proper concrete consolidation around those EPS inserts, I had to get on site and demonstrate the technique myself, working with people who'd been doing this for twenty years. It was frustrating and messy. It was also when I actually started understanding construction engineering. I think about Dr. Hassan working full-time while doing his PhD, and I get it now. It's not just about being busy or determined. It's about seeing problems from both sides—the theoretical side that knows what should work, and the practical side that knows what actually can work. That tension is where real solutions happen. Being a first-generation immigrant adds another layer. I moved to Japan at eighteen, spent my first year translating every lecture in my head, always feeling one step behind. When I finally got comfortable, I started tutoring other international students because I remembered how isolating it felt. Later, working as a technical translator, I saw how communication breakdowns become engineering risks—a mistranslated specification can compromise an entire project. Now I'm at UT Austin starting my M.S./Ph.D., and I'm that international student again. But I'm also bringing something valuable: I've seen how different countries approach construction, and they each have insights the others need. My research focuses on construction productivity and quality management—finding better ways to bridge the gap between planning and execution on site. What really gets me about Dr. Hassan's story is that while battling cancer and managing everything else, he still mentored interns. That's understanding that the work doesn't end with your own achievements. As someone who's been the lost international student, the junior engineer making mistakes, I know how much it matters when someone takes time to help you. I'm not going to pretend I have Dr. Hassan's level of resilience—working through cancer while pursuing a PhD is extraordinary. But I understand the core of it: believing education matters enough to pursue it despite obstacles, staying committed to practical work while deepening your knowledge, and helping others navigate the path you've walked. Those aren't just nice values. They're what move our field forward. This scholarship would connect me to Dr. Hassan's legacy. Being a first-generation immigrant isn't just a challenge to overcome—it's a perspective that enriches engineering. We bring different approaches, different solutions, different ways of seeing problems. That's what Dr. Hassan brought to transportation systems, and that's what I hope to bring to construction engineering. Not despite the challenges of being an immigrant pursuing advanced education, but because of them.