“When are we going home?” For years, this question followed me everywhere, from outings to long days that seemed to stretch endlessly. My parents teased me for counting down the minutes until we returned, but the truth was simpler: I missed the spaces that held me. The corner of my room where my paints lived, even after the bristles gave out; the window I leaned against, straining to see a sliver of stars through Houston’s glow; the desk that slowly became my personal studio as TSA projects piled higher and later into the night. It took growing up to realize I wasn’t longing for a house. I was longing for the environments that shaped me; the places where curiosity felt natural and ideas felt possible. That early yearning became my first clue that spaces are not passive backdrops. They are catalysts for who we become. I wanted to learn how to create them. However, my interests never fit neatly into one box. When teachers asked, “What’s your favorite subject?” I froze. How could I choose between the imagination of art, the precision of physics, the patterns of math, the humanity of English, the curiosity of biology, or the discipline of athletics? I didn't want to choose, but architecture allowed me to merge them all. High school confirmed this. Architecture demanded creativity when I brainstormed ideas, logic when I balanced spatial flow, and empathy when I imagined how people would move, feel, and live in my designs. Whether designing a tiny house or a sprawling art museum, every project taught me to build with intention: purpose first, aesthetics following, and human impact at the center. But architecture didn't first enter my life in a classroom. It began in my backyard. Growing up in Space City, kids talked about NASA, rockets, Artemis, and Apollo. Meanwhile, I completed my own missions: Mission Fence Repair, Mission Roof Patch, Mission Neighbor’s Shed. My father was the commander, and I was the five-year-old crewmember handing him tools I couldn't name. Under the Texas sun, I learned that building was rarely glamorous. Often it was sweaty, uneven, and slow, but always meaningful. A repaired fence meant safety. A patched roof meant comfort. A rebuilt shed meant someone could keep what mattered to them. Every mission ended with stories, food, and the reminder that architecture, at any scale, is a way to care for people. As I grew older, my missions expanded. Through Key Club, I helped build beds for families who had none, repaired hurricane-damaged homes, constructed ramps for people who had not left their houses independently in years, and fundraised to build shelters. These projects were not sleek or futuristic, but each altered someone’s life: a child finally slept soundly, safety returned to a storm-battered home, and independence was restored. In these moments, I realized architecture is not just about designing structures. It is about restoring dignity, possibility, and stability. At the same time, Houston taught me to look upward. I grew up glued to rocket launches, following ISS updates the way other kids followed sports. Space taught me to imagine bigger things; community taught me to design responsibly. Together, they shaped my understanding that architecture can both anchor us to the Earth and push us beyond what we think possible. I knew architecture was right for me the first time all my interests, experiences, and values converged into a single path. Now, as the commander of my own missions, I want to design spaces that uplift communities, protect what matters, and carry people farther than they ever imagined. Thank you for your time and consideration.