A lighthearted game of Marco Polo led to the discovery of my hearing loss. My audiologist presented it as an opportunity for me to be unique, but instead, it strengthened my timidness and tendency to get easily embarrassed. I was so tiny that I remember having to wear a clip on my shirt to keep my sparkly, pink hearing aid from accidentally falling on the floor. My mom wanted to read a book to my class about my hearing aids. Even as a four year old, I felt painstaking embarrassment flare up in me. I cried until I was led all the way to the front of the classroom to meet my teacher. As she picked me up and set me on the left side of her lap, I nestled my head into her shoulder to face away from the embarrassment soon to come. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. A young boy enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Their encouraging remarks, even as four-year-olds, left me with a memorable lesson: uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, expand beyond my comfort zone, and give encouragement and empathy to the people who may need it more than I do. While not fully understanding the meaning of this realization at the age of four, this positive experience ultimately taught me something valuable. Differences are not something to be used against others, but rather as ways to connect under new and inviting circumstances.

Putting myself out there is nearly impossible with an anxiety disorder; you are always scared to be thrown into new routines and to be seen as a beginner in an activity you’re not familiar with. This severely constricted me freshman and sophomore year. By summer of 2020, I was exhausted from fitting into other people’ definitions of who I was and what they thought of me. My first experience of being the “new person” began with my interest in work. After covid hit and everyone was sentenced to months in isolation, I was fed up with how I talked to myself and my own image. I decided to apply to become a lifeguard, where I had no past experience or knowledge; all I knew is that I wanted to do it – something different. I had to take a 2-day, RedCross certification course to be put into action at pools. I was a stranger, 45 minutes away from home, doing strength tests in a pool at 8 am in 60 degree weather and working hard to become CPR certified. When I earned my certificate, it was one of the first times I had truly felt like my future was my own, and that I was living for my own satisfaction. Trust me completely when I say I struggled, fell backwards in progression, and had doubts whenever trying new things; since then, I have worked even harder to create more raw and anxiety racking experiences to train my brain to always be learning more and stretching farther, such as volunteering as a foster family for a cat shelter, joining a new tennis academy, beginning work at a bread bakery, and teaching elementary schoolers how to play tennis.

Lately I have noticed I have an affinity for helping others. While it is an extremely broad subject for my answer to this prompt, there are lots of different careers that suit my personality within this sphere of influence. I absolutely love designing spaces, renovating, reorganizing, and keeping my things neat. My mom likes to say I have an eye for design, and I could use this to help others reimagine their living spaces and areas that might seem some improvement. Interior designing was the job I was set on all throughout elementary school, which was damaged partially when I found out its earnings. If all jobs paid the same, I would stick with a job where I am helping others, such as interior design. Another example would be my other desired job of being either a zoologist or studying marine science. I am very passionate about the ocean's health and I believe that, as a human race, we are responsible for restoring the natural ecosystems within land and water habitats that we destroyed in the first place. I still am in love with this idea, I just shifted it into a business degree so I could hopefully run my own sanctuary or restoration company some day and know the ins and outs of the economic side. Overall, these two jobs that were my top choices growing up did not quite pan out the way I wanted them to, but instead I shifted my passions into a more general degree where I can have more time and knowledge to research a niche topic I truly love helping and working towards after graduating from UGA. My sole purpose of helping others still remains constant, I just have a few different routes in getting there later in life.

A lighthearted game of Marco Polo led to the discovery of my hearing loss. My audiologist presented it as an opportunity for me to be unique, but instead, it strengthened my timidness and tendency to get easily embarrassed. I was so tiny that I remember having to wear a clip on my shirt to keep my sparkly, pink hearing aid from accidentally falling on the floor. My mom wanted to read a book to my class about my hearing aids. Even as a four year old, I felt painstaking embarrassment flare up in me. I cried until I was led all the way to the front of the classroom to meet my teacher. As she picked me up and set me on the left side of her lap, I nestled my head into her shoulder to face away from the embarrassment soon to come. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. A young boy enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Their encouraging remarks, even as four-year-olds, left me with a memorable lesson: uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, expand beyond my comfort zone, and give encouragement and empathy to the people who may need it more than I do. While not fully understanding the meaning of this realization at the age of four, this positive experience ultimately taught me something valuable. Differences are not something to be used against others, but rather as ways to connect under new and inviting circumstances.

A lighthearted game of Marco Polo led to the discovery of my hearing loss. My audiologist presented it as an opportunity for me to be unique, but instead, it strengthened my timidness and tendency to get easily embarrassed. I was so tiny that I remember having to wear a clip on my shirt to keep my sparkly, pink hearing aid from accidentally falling on the floor. My mom wanted to read a book to my class about my hearing aids. Even as a four year old, I felt painstaking embarrassment flare up in me. I cried until I was led all the way to the front of the classroom to meet my teacher. As she picked me up and set me on the left side of her lap, I nestled my head into her shoulder to face away from the embarrassment soon to come. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. A young boy enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Their encouraging remarks, even as four-year-olds, left me with a memorable lesson: uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, expand beyond my comfort zone, and give encouragement and empathy to the people who may need it more than I do. While not fully understanding the meaning of this realization at the age of four, this positive experience ultimately taught me something valuable. Differences are not something to be used against others, but rather as ways to connect under new and inviting circumstances.

Putting myself out there is nearly impossible with an anxiety disorder; you are always scared to be thrown into new routines and to be seen as a beginner in an activity you’re not familiar with. This severely constricted me freshman and sophomore year. By summer of 2020, I was exhausted from fitting into other people’ definitions of who I was and what they thought of me. My first experience of being the “new person” began with my interest in work. After covid hit and everyone was sentenced to months in isolation, I was fed up with how I talked to myself and my own image. I decided to apply to become a lifeguard, where I had no past experience or knowledge; all I knew is that I wanted to do it – something different. I had to take a 2-day, RedCross certification course to be put into action at pools. I was a stranger, 45 minutes away from home, doing strength tests in a pool at 8 am in 60 degree weather and working hard to become CPR certified. When I earned my certificate, it was one of the first times I had truly felt like my future was my own, and that I was living for my own satisfaction. Trust me completely when I say I struggled, fell backwards in progression, and had doubts whenever trying new things; since then, I have worked even harder to create more raw and anxiety racking experiences to train my brain to always be learning more and stretching farther, such as volunteering as a foster family for a cat shelter, joining a new tennis academy, beginning work at a bread bakery, and teaching elementary schoolers how to play tennis.

Lately I have noticed I have an affinity for helping others. While it is an extremely broad subject for my answer to this prompt, there are lots of different careers that suit my personality within this sphere of influence. I absolutely love designing spaces, renovating, reorganizing, and keeping my things neat. My mom likes to say I have an eye for design, and I could use this to help others reimagine their living spaces and areas that might seem some improvement. Interior designing was the job I was set on all throughout elementary school, which was damaged partially when I found out its earnings. If all jobs paid the same, I would stick with a job where I am helping others, such as interior design. Another example would be my other desired job of being either a zoologist or studying marine science. I am very passionate about the ocean's health and I believe that, as a human race, we are responsible for restoring the natural ecosystems within land and water habitats that we destroyed in the first place. I still am in love with this idea, I just shifted it into a business degree so I could hopefully run my own sanctuary or restoration company some day and know the ins and outs of the economic side. Overall, these two jobs that were my top choices growing up did not quite pan out the way I wanted them to, but instead I shifted my passions into a more general degree where I can have more time and knowledge to research a niche topic I truly love helping and working towards after graduating from UGA. My sole purpose of helping others still remains constant, I just have a few different routes in getting there later in life.

Putting myself out there is nearly impossible with an anxiety disorder; you are always scared to be thrown into new routines and to be seen as a beginner in an activity you’re not familiar with. This severely constricted me freshman and sophomore year. By summer of 2020, I was exhausted from fitting into other people’ definitions of who I was and what they thought of me. My first experience of being the “new person” began with my interest in work. After covid hit and everyone was sentenced to months in isolation, I was fed up with how I talked to myself and my own image. I decided to apply to become a lifeguard, where I had no past experience or knowledge; all I knew is that I wanted to do it – something different. I had to take a 2-day, RedCross certification course to be put into action at pools. I was a stranger, 45 minutes away from home, doing strength tests in a pool at 8 am in 60 degree weather and working hard to become CPR certified. When I earned my certificate, it was one of the first times I had truly felt like my future was my own, and that I was living for my own satisfaction. Trust me completely when I say I struggled, fell backwards in progression, and had doubts whenever trying new things; since then, I have worked even harder to create more raw and anxiety racking experiences to train my brain to always be learning more and stretching farther, such as volunteering as a foster family for a cat shelter, joining a new tennis academy, beginning work at a bread bakery, and teaching elementary schoolers how to play tennis.

A lighthearted game of Marco Polo led to the discovery of my hearing loss. My audiologist presented it as an opportunity for me to be unique, but instead, it strengthened my timidness and tendency to get easily embarrassed. I was so tiny that I remember having to wear a clip on my shirt to keep my sparkly, pink hearing aid from accidentally falling on the floor. My mom wanted to read a book to my class about my hearing aids. Even as a four year old, I felt painstaking embarrassment flare up in me. I cried until I was led all the way to the front of the classroom to meet my teacher. As she picked me up and set me on the left side of her lap, I nestled my head into her shoulder to face away from the embarrassment soon to come. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. A young boy enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Their encouraging remarks, even as four-year-olds, left me with a memorable lesson: uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, expand beyond my comfort zone, and give encouragement and empathy to the people who may need it more than I do. While not fully understanding the meaning of this realization at the age of four, this positive experience ultimately taught me something valuable. Differences are not something to be used against others, but rather as ways to connect under new and inviting circumstances.

A lighthearted game of Marco Polo led to the discovery of my hearing loss. I was so tiny I remember wearing a clip on my shirt to keep my sparkly, pink hearing aid from accidentally falling on the floor. My mom wanted to read a book about my hearing loss to my preschool. Even as a four year old, I felt painstaking embarrassment flare up in me. Still carrying the picture book with me, I cried until I was led all the way to the front of the classroom to meet my teacher. As she picked me up and set me on the left side of her lap, I nestled my head into her shoulder to face away from the embarrassment that was soon to come. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. When my mom closed the book, the classroom was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, until a young boy declared what shifted my perspective about differences to this day. He enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, expand beyond my comfort zone, and give encouragement and empathy to the people who may need it more than I do. While not fully understanding the meaning of this realization at the age of four, this positive experience ultimately taught me something valuable. Differences are not something to be used against others, but rather as ways to connect under new and inviting circumstances.

My parents found out I had a hearing loss in my right ear when I was three. All throughout my childhood, I was ashamed to wear it or be seen with it in my ear. I tried hiding it everyday, and keeping it a secret was one of my highest priorities; that is until one day in my preschool classroom when my mom read a book about hearing aids to my entire class. As she picked me up and set me on her lap, I nestled my head into her to face away from the future embarrassment. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. When my mom closed the book, the classroom was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, until a young boy declared what shifted my perspective about differences to this day. He enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Their encouraging remarks, even as four-year-olds, left me with a memorable lesson: uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, something to be grateful for. That responsive classroom I stood in front of is one of the reasons I grew up to an outgoing teen. I felt encouraged by their kind words and my disability felt less like a secret and more like a way to be confident in what makes me different. My uniqueness drives me towards encouraging others to be grateful for what God has given them, a lesson that I learned long ago in a tiny, preschool classroom.

I walked down a hallway covered with welcoming decorations but refused to go into the classroom. My head hung low and my eyes bore into my white sneakers as I reluctantly held a picture book from my audiologist. I was so tiny that I remember having to wear a clip on my shirt to keep my sparkly, pink hearing aid from accidentally falling on the floor. My mom wanted to read the book to my class. Even as a four year old, I felt painstaking embarrassment flare up in me. I wanted to keep my hearing aid a secret. I even dramatically dropped to the floor in an attempt to escape my mother’s grasp on me as she tried to pull me through the doorway. I sobbed until she sat down on the ground and held me, waiting for my tears to dry. I hoped this meant that we didn’t have to go in and I could go home and watch cartoons. This was not the case, judging by her swift pull of my arm through the tall, metal doorway into my class. Still carrying the picture book with me, I cried until I was led all the way to the front of the classroom to meet my teacher. Mrs. Nicole instructed the kids to sit on the carpet in front of us. After pulling up a chair, my mom took the picture book out of my grasp and opened it to the first page. As she picked me up and set me on the left side of her lap, I nestled my head into her shoulder to face away from the embarrassment that was soon to come. Oddly enough, my classmates leaned in as my mom began reading Oliver the Elephant Gets Hearing Aids. Page-by-page, I noticed looks of curiosity--not mockery. Nearing the end of the book, I sank my head down again to protect myself from judgement. When my mom closed the book, the classroom was so quiet that you could hear a pin drop, until a young boy declared what shifted my perspective about differences to this day. He enthusiastically said, “When I get my hearing aids, I wanna get a blue one and a green one!” All of the children in my class began talking about what colors they would choose. Their encouraging remarks, even as four-year-olds, left me with a memorable lesson: uniqueness is not something to be ashamed of, but rather a tool to allow me to reach out to others, expand beyond my comfort zone, and give encouragement and empathy to the people who may need it more than I do. While not fully understanding the meaning of this realization at the age of four, this positive experience ultimately taught me something valuable. Differences are not something to be used against others, but rather as ways to connect under new and inviting circumstances.