Johns Hopkins University

Pop quiz: A bird shoots through the crisp morning air of New York City, dodging skyscrapers at a speed of thirty kilometers per hour. The sun breaks through the horizon, blinding the bird in both eyes. The bird manages to catch its reflection in the shining glass of the Empire State Building—but by that time, it's too late. How do we use velocity, angles, distance, and force to find the point at which the glass shatters?

For me, math is more than just numbers. It's a mode of visualizing movement in action, the synthesis of my imagination and the physical world. When I'm problem-solving, I'm not just generating a string of numbers on paper. I'm picturing the spiral of a rollercoaster, the friction of a waterslide, and the curvature of an asteroid's impending collision with Earth.

In high school, when precalculus was taught as a series of step-by-step instructions, it felt like the vivid and colorful world I had come to love was being broadcast in black and white. I saw this reflected in the growing disinterest of my classmates, who saw math as a monotonous chore rather than a universal language with boundless explanatory and creative power. I had to step in. I had to show people what I saw.

This inspired me to begin writing creative math questions for my peers. My parametric equations are not simple problems with one-step calculations– they are cinematic universes that jolt audiences with excitement. They invite others to embrace mathematics as a practice of external—and even internal—discovery that was missing in my school.

When I present my famous "bird crashing into the window" problem students enthusiastically gather around the whiteboard to uncover its mysteries. I watch their impassioned discussions unfold with a sense of satisfaction as each drawing and scribble brings them closer to the truth. Witnessing their pride as they finally arrive at the answer reminds me of why I teach.

I've since honed question-design into an art, creating math tests and exercises for Teachers Pay Teachers so that teachers around the world can give my imaginative questions to their students. I hope that students not only learn the concepts I'm teaching– but also critical thinking and reasoning that provides new ways to solve challenges in their lives.

I have also used the medium of math beyond problem sets and assessments. As captain of the Math Olympiad, I use it to transform confused faces into laughter and excitement, to test my teammates' courage and strengthen team bonds. When I tutor Mu Alpha Theta or teach in Wall Street Lions, it is a language of empathy and connection to connect with students with interests outside of STEM. And in CivicSpark—the non-profit I co-founded to help students gain agency through civic engagement—I deploy the logic and reasoning of math without the numbers. Through a curriculum of imaginative puzzles, I empowered students in schools across Southern California to reach out to their representatives to ignite real change.

In this way, I have used math as a brush to paint a canvas that extends beyond the visual to what matters most—infusing life with greater meaning and heart. It is this creativity that compels me to pursue Applied Mathematics. There is no greater or more fulfilling challenge than the application of mathematics to real-life problems. However I hope to take this application a step further: If every calculation is a story, what does it mean for us to become storytellers? And how can this intellectual artistry transform the world?

As for the bird that caught its reflection in the office window–perhaps it isn't about the force of the collision, but what happens after. The way the shards of glass multiply a single reflection into thousands of new perspectives. The way a barrier opens to reveal spaces that were previously hidden. And the infinite possibilities of what happens next.

I stare into my bathroom mirror as I remove the mask. For the first time, I will attend high school showing my full face. I need to be beautiful, just like the girls on my TikTok feed. I examine each video, searching for the common thread. A hot pink blush gleams on each girl's cheek. Despite the stark contrast between my pale Irish skin spattered with freckles and that of the sun-kissed influencers, I race to Target to search for the infamous Revlon Insta-Blush which comes in stick form, making it foolproof. Or, so I thought.

On the first day of school, I optimistically swipe the stick across my face, waiting for instant beautification. But, my embarrassingly pink cheeks redden as they attract a different type of attention. I quickly banish the blush stick to the back of my makeup drawer. In need of a confidence boost, I vow to add color into my life instead of my face.

An opportunity presents itself near the end of freshman year as I sit in World History class with my friends Hannah and Julia. Suddenly, they thrust their iPads in my face. They smirk, informing me that "Glenbard West is looking for its next weather reporter." I join them in laughter but steal a second look at the email. My eyes betray me. Both catch my second glance.

"Oh my gosh, Emily, I dare you!" Hannah screeches. I shrug, click the sign-up link and hastily complete the form. Later, I am invited to submit an audition video. I scoff and close the email, certain I'd quickly become a social pariah. Yet, this could be my chance to add a splash of color, to take a risk and attempt something new. I grab my umbrella as a prop, hit record and recite the script. A week later, an email entitled, CONGRATULATIONS WEATHERWOMAN!, arrives. What have I gotten myself into?!

Suddenly, it's time to compose my first report . . . to enter the eye of the storm. Conscious that every word will be broadcast to all of my peers, I keep it straightforward, simply presenting the forecast. Boring. I know something is missing. So, I create a catchy sign-off, "Keep it Cool in the Castle West" which references our school's castle-like logo.

On recording day, I stare into my bathroom mirror once again. My eyes drift toward a single tube of coral blush I had been given two years prior. Its soft, sunset orange hue in stark contrast to that TikTok trending hot pink. I slowly dab the Glossier Cloud Paint blush onto my cheeks. It gives my pale skin a natural glow, one that emulates my happiness. My confidence shines as I record my first segment.

Later, when the broadcast projects into my classroom, my nerves take over. I bury myself into my iPad, trying to disappear. After class, I venture into the hallway, eyes glued to the floor.

"Great job with the weather!" someone yells. Another waves. I shoot upright, scanning from one smiling face to another. As I record more and more broadcasts, even people I hadn't known before begin to say "hi" to me across campus. I'd always been one with a small, tight circle of good friends, but unexpectedly, my social network broadens as my campus "celebrity" grows. As I forge connections with new peers, my confidence builds. I expand my role within the broadcast and my school. I no longer recite the bare minimum but rather, report on sporting events and dare to write my own jokes. Contributing to our school spirit in this small way makes me proud. By trying new things and breaking the cage of conformity, I've also learned to love myself and my differences from the girls on social media. I wear my coral blush with pride for the freshman girl in Target. She finally learned how to be herself.

I remember being surprised at how weak my arm felt, as if I was holding a dumbbell instead of a microphone. Standing in front of all of my high school classmates at our weekly Monday Meeting, I could feel my heartbeat in my ears as I studied the small silver holes in the head of the microphone and momentarily wished I was small enough to fit into one of them and disappear. I looked down at the short Women's History month fact I had prepared and began to read. It wasn't until I felt someone come up next to me and gently push the microphone closer to my face that I realized that no one could hear me. I finished a few seconds later and fought tears as I returned to my seat amid a smattering of polite applause.

I mostly felt embarrassed; I had failed at such a simple task and allowed my nerves to hijack my voice. For the rest of the meeting, I watched our Student Body President, a brilliant, charismatic senior make announcements and crack jokes with an apparent ease that I couldn't fathom. I had so much respect and admiration for his public speaking skills– I wished I had the courage to be up there, self-assured and composed. As my embarrassment ebbed I felt another feeling boiling up in me; a sudden resolve. I wanted to get up there one day and try again.

Naturally a reserved person, adjusting to a new school freshman year had been difficult. I found a weird solace in hiding behind the masks we were still wearing at the time– covering most of my face made it easier to remain in my own little bubble, quietly observing others. Given my shyness, I was a bit surprised when a teacher encouraged me to run for Student Council. I surprised myself even more when I decided to run. The idea of being one of the student leaders who I so admired, up there leading the meetings, scared me, and yet it simultaneously drew me in like a magnet for reasons that I couldn't have fully articulated at the time. It was precisely the fear that made me want to try– I wanted to prove to myself that I could conquer it.

This inescapable pull towards things that scare me has extended into every aspect of my life, from public speaking to basketball to academics. Aside from the responsibility I feel to myself, I often think about people less fortunate than I am; my cousins in Florida, family members in Jamaica, and girls just like me around the world who will never have access to an education. Many of them will never have the chance to take an AP science class, give a TEDx talk, or run for Student Council. I feel that I owe it to them, too, to take advantage of every opportunity, even the daunting ones. Getting out of my comfort zone is not just a personal obligation; it's a privilege and a blessing.

Now, in front of my classmates as Student Body President, holding the microphone doesn't trigger the waves of panic it once did. I no longer study the holes in the microphone; thanks to experience, I have gradually felt empowerment take the place of horror when I have the microphone in my hand. Recently, an underclassman told me that even though she loves being in Student Council, she would never run for President, because she could never get up there and speak like I do. She said it flippantly, like it was just a fact, but I saw so much of myself in her and immediately pushed back. She can. Because I did. Ultimately, that's the best part of holding the microphone- being an example and encouraging those who I'll eventually pass it on to, like so many others did for me.

"Bring the ace of spades up," my Grandmother said as we started our first game of solitaire after I got home from school. "Now, put the black eight onto the red nine." We played solitaire often, working together to reorganize the cards most efficiently. While it was meant to be a single-player game, solitaire was the one thing we did together, moving and dealing the cards in a symphony of order: red to black, red to black. Pulling the pattern out of the random array of cards.

For hours, we sat at our glossy kitchen table, playing game after game. If there were no more moves to make, I would always sneak a card from below a column without my grandma seeing. She always did. I couldn't understand- What was the big deal of revealing the cards? We might win one out of ten games played. But if we just 'helped ourselves,' as I liked to call it, we could win them all. I didn't understand her adherence to the "Turn Three" rule. Why not just turn the cards one by one? It was too frustrating to see the cards go by, but turn exactly three and not be able to pick them up! After one game we lost, I asked my grandma, "Why do we play this way? There's a much better way to play." In response, she quickly explained her adamancy to the rules, what before had made no sense to me.

Her polished fingernails scratched against the cards as she shuffled them and told me. "Solitaire isn't just a game for one person." Her deep brown eyes sharply glanced at me, "No." It wasn't just a game for one person, but rather for two sides of a person. It was an internal battle, a strengthening of the mind. One playing against oneself. "If one side of you cheats, how would either side get better?"

Red lipsticked lips slightly grinned as my grandma saw me trying to understand, but I didn't agree with this thought at once. The cards rhythmically slapped down onto the table as my grandmother, small yet stoic, effortlessly moved the cards with frail hands. I watched her. I thought about any other way to understand this idea. I desperately wanted to. Trying to think, I couldn't imagine another instance where this sense of tranquility, bringing the melody of organization out of a cacophony of random cards, came from such intense competition.

The slow manipulation of life around her precedent made me think back to my grandma, to what she told me, and made me understand. Two years later, pushing myself harder than I ever had before in a field hockey match, I realized how much I had been cheating myself and my team by not putting this effort in before. Four years later, I was helping my parents clean after dinner when I saw the value in not taking the easy way out. Five years later, I found once again the difficult ease in pottery. Lifting the pot off the wheel, I found satisfaction. Looking back, I hadn't realized that this notion of self-accountability appears in almost every aspect of my life.

Seven columns. Four aces. Fifty-two cards. Laying these down, I'm brought back to playing solitaire with my grandmother. Through time, her inner spirit never crumbled as her body began to deteriorate. Her mind stayed strong and proud. I admired her for that more than she could've imagined. Each challenge I face, or will face, in life, I think back to her lesson one inconspicuous afternoon. Never let myself cheat. Always hold myself accountable. Work hard in every competition, especially the ones against myself, as those are the ones that better me the most. I did not understand what my grandmother meant that day. Now, with each day, I do more.

I'm Stone's sidekick, friend, and mentor. Stone created me with Legos back in his fifth-grade robotics lab, and I've been with him since. Unlike my noisy colleagues in Toy Story, I'm a silent observer and have watched Stone mature over the years. Given my keen eye and experience, I can confidently say that Stone's life is closely revolved around me–his robot.

In eighth grade, we had to wave goodbye to our founding robotics club since Stone moved to Taiwan. There came our first transition: the new robotics club required me to be built with metal instead of Legos, and Stone had never even laid hands on a wrench before! To my relief, he didn't stagnate; he shadowed veteran members during meetings, asked questions whenever possible, and stayed for long hours after school to hone his power tool skills. By year-end, Stone had amassed enough knowledge and successfully assembled me a sporty all-metal body.

Before we could relish our success, Stone's family moved once again from Taiwan to Texas. Stone started high school and joined the new robotics club, where a new challenge brewed. Armed with his mechanical experience, freshman Stone was confident in his approach to designing robots, making him both assertive and at times "bossy." In fact, he developed hearing issues—other members' ideas would enter his right ear and immediately exit through his left ear. However, his colleagues still respected his dedication, and overlooking his shortcomings, elected him as President at the end of tenth grade. Now responsible for the entire club's future, Stone realized he must regain his 'hearing' and change his leadership strategy to successfully lead the teams.

Stone grew cognizant of his approach to leadership as he swayed from authoritative to participative. In discussions, he worked hard to shut up and listen. When assembling me, he encouraged others to take the screwdriver. He even sought feedback from his teammates during carpools. These actions instilled a sense of team spirit and collaboration amongst the members, which transformed me into a robot forged with everyone's ideas. Through their diligence and (mostly) my skillful performance, we advanced past leagues, regionals, and achieved a place amongst the top teams in the State—an unprecedented accomplishment for The Pastabots.

Not that there wasn't drama along the way.

As if obeying Murphy's Law, my body became limp two days before the State Championship. Sighs and headshakes filled the lab as I pitifully failed at tasks that I had performed flawlessly the day before. After examination, Stone diagnosed me with "terminal launcher jam;" if untreated, we would be lucky to place second to-last. Then, the team discussed my treatment—a complete rebuild or just a patch-up? With the clock ticking, Stone chose to patch me up.

Wrong decision: after 4 hours of "quick patch-up," my metal frame still refused to budge. Some members collapsed on the futon and others stared at the clock. Stone gazed at me while holding his wrench, his incisive brown eyes searching for a solution. Suddenly, he announced, "I'm sorry guys. My decision was wrong, but we can't give up now! Let's rebuild the launcher." This resolve reinvigorated the members, and the operation recommenced. Like performing a surgery, overhead lights brightly illuminated me and the surrounding mechanics. With screwdrivers replacing scalpels, and safety goggles in place of surgical headlights, the team succeeded in assembling a new launcher. With it, I scored points with ease. Drowned in everyone's cheers, Stone came to understand that failure is a part of life but the will to rectify his mistake serves as a motivation to embark on many more ventures in life. Indeed, from the clicking of Legos to the clanking of metal, Stone has laid many stepping stones for the journey ahead. Although it is filled with obstacles, we will face it with optimism. I wonder what's next? Can't wait to find out!

The first lesson I learned as a student pilot is that left and right don't exist. Maybe driving on a highway or in a parking lot, left and right is precise enough to describe the location and movements of slow-moving bikers, pedestrians, and cars. But at 36,000 feet in the air in a steel tube hurdling almost 200 miles an hour? Left and right just don't cut it.

During one of my first flights in a small Cessna-182, my flight instructor ordered me to scan the horizon for approaching aircrafts. To my right, I caught a glimpse of one: another Cessna with maroon stripes, the sun's reflection glinting off its windows. Gesturing vaguely to my two o'clock, I informed my flying instructor, "There's a plane to the right."

"No, to your right. From his position, what direction does he see you?" From his angle, I was to his left. In that moment, I realized that perspective and precision of language is everything. The radio chirped: "Cessna One-Eight-Two Sandra, heading north to John Wayne Airport. Over."

I navigate using my compass's north, east, south, and west directions because every pilot's vantage point differs from each other both vertically and horizontally, creating opposite perspectives. My right was that pilot's left.

Through flying, I began to consider all points of view, regardless of my personal perspective.

Perhaps it was my ability to scan the horizon to communicate a single story, uniting contrasting outlooks, that drew me to my love for journalism and the diverse melting pot that was my community.

To me, journalism modernizes the ancient power of storytelling, filled with imperfect characters and intricate conflicts to which I am the narrator. As editor-in-chief for my school newspaper, The Wildcat's Tale, I aim to share the uncensored perspective of all students and encourage my editorial groups to talk — and listen — to those with whom they disagree. Starting each newspaper edition with a socratic, round-table discussion, I ask the other journalists to pursue stories that answer the questions: why did this happen and where will it lead?

Expanding beyond the perspectives of my classmates, I began writing articles for the Korea Daily, and later, the Los Angeles Times High School Insider. I schedule interviews with city council candidates, young and old voters, and mayors of my town, obtaining quotes and anecdotes to weave into my writing. My interviews with both Democratic and Republican voters have taught me to thoroughly report polarizing-opposite opinions through an unbiased lens. As a journalist, I realized I cannot presume the opinions of the reader, but instead simply provide them with the tools necessary to formulate their own conclusions.

However, differences in perspective in my articles are not solely limited to politics. I found that in my suburban community, people love to read about the small-town hospitality of their own friends and neighbors. Quirky traditions, like our Fourth of July carnival clown and local elementary school's Thanksgiving talent show, are equally as important to me as national headlines are. My favorite stories to publish are the ones taped onto fridges, proudly framed on the mom-and-pop downtown diner, or pinned into the corkboard in my teacher's classroom. I discovered the size of my story does not matter, but the impact I leave on the reader does.

In my time as both a student pilot and journalist, I grew to love these stories, the ones that showed me that living life with blinders, can not only be boring, but dangerous. Whether I was 36,000 feet in the air or on ground level, by flying and writing, I realized that the most interesting stories of life come straight from the people most different from me.

I cannot dance.

This is not something I often admit willingly; in fact, it is quite baffling to me how horribly incapable I am at performing even the most basic movements on command. My grandmother often describes it as "a tragedy" as she is forced to watch her grandchild absolutely butcher our country's cultural dances, beautiful expressions of our unique West African roots turned into poor facsimiles by my robotic movements.

And yet, year after year, I find myself taking the dance floor at my family's events, seemingly unaware of my objective lack of skill. Eventually, my display proves to be so amazingly unbearable that I am removed from the floor and shown the correct movements over and over again until I am able to replicate them well enough to come back. Bizarrely, despite my previous declaration that I cannot dance, for the past three years, I have found myself performing an entire choreographed routine at my school's yearly pep rallies.

It is through looking back at these events that I realize that I have created a mischaracterization of my dancing abilities through my decisive first sentence. I can dance and am, in fact, very capable of doing so, but not when I act insularly. My ability to dance correlates directly with how willing I am to collaborate, the input and support of others turning the uncoordinated and unwieldy into the near-graceful.

My attempts at dancing have led me to value community and collaboration greatly, and I find myself seeking and being drawn towards environments that will allow me to continue to develop both of these values as I learn and grow. Through my internship with the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Lab, I was exposed to and became fascinated by the collaborative spirit that lies at the heart of Johns Hopkins. The idea that one cannot discover or innovate when working alone was affirmed during my research, and I have come to see that mutual collaboration and community are integral aspects of Johns Hopkins' unique culture. From the research initiatives that breach the boundaries between class levels, to the many organizations such as the Tutorial Project, relying on the shared initiatives of different students to directly make an impact on Baltimore and its many communities, and the distinctive access to especially interdisciplinary topics such as neuromorphic systems, I view that Johns Hopkins exemplifies the peak of collaborative achievement in education.

The white yarn slipped off my aluminium crochet hook, adding a single crochet to rows and rows of existing stitches, that looked to be in the form of a blob. Staring at the image of the little unicorn amigurumi lit up on the screen of my laptop, and looking back at the UMO (unidentified messy object) number five, I was extremely perplexed.

This had seemed so easy. Round 1, construct a magic circle with 6 single crochets. Done. Round 2 was an increase round resulting in a total of 12 stitches. Also done. The remaining rounds were blurred into hours and minutes that should have resulted in a little white creature in the likeness of a unicorn, but sitting on my desk (much like the four days before today) was a pool of tangled white yarn. It was not until day seven that a creature with a lopsided head whose horn was the only identifier of the mythical being emerged.

Very much like learning how to crochet, my journey in forging my own path and finding a passion was confusing, messy and at times infuriating. Even in primary school, I had heard all the stories of individuals finding their own route in life. I had been told stories of those who found their passion at a young age and were exceptionally proficient at their craft, of those that abandoned their interests and pursued a lucrative career, even those who chose their dreams but regretted it afterwards. This weighed heavily on me, as I was determined to have a success story as many of my other family members had. The only problem was that I did not have a direction.

In the years following primary school, I stepped out of my comfort zone in a frenzy to find a passion. I joined the school orchestra where I played the violin, and a debate class to practice public speaking and become much more eloquent. At my ballet school, I branched out to contemporary and jazz dance. I stuffed myself with experience similar to an amigurumi engorged with batting. I found myself enjoying all of those activities but soon enough, I was swamped with extracurriculars. Just like the tangles of white yarn on my desk, I was pulled in all directions. I still felt lost. To make things worse, it seemed as if everyone else had found their path in life, and they had all become white unicorns while I was still doubting the stitch I just made.

It was not until high school that I realised that I could view this mission to find a passion from another perspective. While successfully completing a crochet project is an accomplishment itself, the motions of making slip knots, single or double crochets takes you on an adventure as well. The knots that I had encountered in my craft were evidence of my experiences and what shaped me as an individual. My exploration of various paths through detours may have sometimes resulted in roadblocks, but I continued to persevere and learn from my experiences, applying the skills that I have gained to future knots. The mini adventures that I went on were all crucial to me in the greater journey of life.

Through trial and error, the current adventure that I am on resonates the most with me, taking me down the path of service and environmental activism. However, I have learnt that no one path is static, and I can be on more than one path at a time. While I may only be halfway to the proportionate unicorn amigurumi that some others may have already achieved, I still have so much to learn and so much that I want to learn, and so my journey to grow continues.

No, Dante. Stop, think, and look at the entire board.

I was thoroughly confused. I thought I had procured the complete solution to this elaborate chess puzzle. What am I missing? A knight fork, a bishop move? Am I in check? After a quick glance at the left side of the board, I slapped my hand on my head as I suddenly realized what my chess coach was telling me. My queen was sitting unused, positioned all the way on the other side of the board, and I had no idea. If I were to sacrifice my queen, the opposing rook would be forced to capture it, allowing me to finish the game in style with the illustrious "smothered mate."

If you begin to look at the whole chessboard, then these puzzles will become a breeze for you.

Ever since that chess lesson, those words have stuck. Indeed, my chess skills improved swiftly as my rating flew over the 1000 Elo threshold in a matter of months. However, those words did not merely pertain to chess. Looking at the whole picture became a foundational skill that I have utilized throughout my life in school and other endeavors. I particularly remember making use of it on the soccer field.

Now, I'm no Arnold Schwarzenegger. Weighing in at a monstrous 125 pounds and standing 5 foot 8 inches, my opponents made it a habit to tackle me to the ground. Once again, I found myself face to face with the defender, and before I knew it, I crumbled to the ground, left isolated and dispossessed. Laying dazed on the pitch, my mind flashed back to the chessboard. It occurred to me that soccer, much like chess, relies on the proper position of the many pieces that combine to create a finished strategy. The "whole picture" of soccer is not just how fast or strong one is or how many tackles you put in; that is only one element of the puzzle. The intelligence and creativity needed in a playmaker is also an essential part of a well-rounded soccer team. I realized that my most significant advantage would always be my in-depth understanding of the game of soccer—where to pass the ball, when to make a run, if the ball should be in the air or driven. I picked myself off the ground, and when that same defender came barreling towards me again, I was zoned in, oblivious to the noise around me. I chipped the ball into the open space right behind him, knowing my teammate would run into the space without even looking. From then on, I continued to hone my skills through intense practice to become the best playmaker I could be, working in conjunction with my faster and stronger teammates to become a well-balanced, unified team.

Through chess and soccer, I have discovered that every piece in a puzzle has a purpose. This new perspective has enhanced my ability to stop, stand back, and analyze the whole picture in the many dimensions of my life. In my scientific studies, it was not enough to examine just one C. reinhardtii cell, but it was necessary to zoom out the microscope to capture all of the thousand cells to truly understand quorum sensing and its consequences. In my studies of music, it was not enough to listen to the melody of the finale of Beethoven's 9th symphony, but one must realize that the true beauty of the composition lies in the whole orchestra handing off this simple melody to every instrument. All these facets—music, research, soccer, chess—are not only completed puzzles but also parts of a greater whole: my life. Every aspect of myself matters as much as the other. As high school comes to an end, the pieces on my board are set, and I only have success in mind.

Your move.

If you told me I would be playing a sport called squash at 11 years old, I would call you crazy. But in seventh grade, I was at a new school 10 times bigger than my last one. I felt like a little fish in a big pond. I was quiet, withdrawn, and very introverted. A lot of the time, I stayed where I was comfortable.

During the first week of school, a group of people visited the school and they introduced themselves as Squashbusters. At that time, I'd only heard of Squash once before, but I didn't really know what it was. Because the program combined the sport of squash with academic support, mentoring, and service opportunities, I decided to sign up. It's been six years and this program has made a monumental difference in my life.

Being a part of SquashBusters is a program that really pushed me out of my shell to the point where I've grown accustomed to challenging myself. In SquashBusters, they tell us to push ourselves past our limits on the squash courts, but that mindset has transferred to other areas of my life as well. From team trips and tournaments to cringy karaoke moments and participating in eccentric traditions like our annual SquashBusters Olympics, my comfort zone has steadily grown larger. My peers brought out a side of me I didn't even know existed. I haven't transformed completely from introvert to extrovert, but I've become more social as the years go by.

At Hopkins, I want to do something similar. I want to try new things and embrace the campus traditions. Even though I will develop intellectually from the many academic classes and clubs/activities offered on campus, I feel as though a true community is birthed from exploring beyond what one's used to. From traditions like Blue Jay Opening Day and the Spring Fair to the many world-changing clubs like the Amnesty International club and the Foreign Affairs Symposium, the different ways to be involved in the Hopkins community is limitless and invigorating and I can't wait to be a part of the Hopkins family.

– 3 tablespoons butter – 2 eggs, whisked – 2 medium carrots – 1 small white onion – 1/2 cup frozen peas – 3 cloves garlic – salt and pepper – 4 cups cooked and chilled rice – 3-4 green onions – soy sauce (to taste) – 2 teaspoons oyster sauce (optional) – 1/2 teaspoons toasted sesame oil

I bet you didn't read those numbers.

I'll let you in on a secret – I didn't either.

The ingredients above were copied and pasted from the first Google search result for "fried rice recipe." But, without any disrespect to the recipe's owner, I can tell you it's wrong.

The only true fried rice recipe is no recipe at all. There are no measurements, no exact instructions, no timer for how long something should sizzle in the pan. There are only smells and feelings and memories. I learned to cook fried rice on the rickety stool covered in Blues Clues stickers, surrounded by the scents of my nainai's Minnie Mouse apron, my yéyé's cashmere sweater, or my mama's Pantene shampoo; in the comfort of our cozy condo and our sweltering Hángzhou apartment; by watching the eggs crack over delicate china bowls, tossed and stirred in woks using slanted wooden spatulas. We used however much leftover rice we had, however many eggs we found appropriate, and a combination of anything and everything or nothing sitting in the fridge.

Yet-

I've always been more of a baker than a cook. I enjoy recipes – I enjoy the process of being exact and finding details, tweaking and leveling and weighing. Other people will have recipes passed down from their great-grandparents; I will have memories, held dear, but no way to pass anything on besides the recreation of childhood moments. From a young age, I found solace in the meticulous baking recipes found in Western cookbooks.

This coveting of all things exact doesn't flow into the rest of my life. My mom will tell you my desk is a mess – I call it "room for creative license." My mom will tell you my closet is also a mess – I call it "fashionably curious." My mom will tell you my life is sometimes, you guessed it!, a mess. I call it MAPWIFOWISTBSIDMOTBOML, also known as "my-artistic-phase-where-I'm-figuring-out-who-I'm-supposed-to-be-so-I-dumped-myself-out-to-be-organized-much-later." That's a mouthful, so I shorten it, obviously.

On the flip side, I like measuring the liquid in my graduated cylinder from the exact bottom of the meniscus. If your text message has a typo in it, I feel the nagging urge to annoyingly correct you. If the origami swan I folded has an uneven tail, I will take it apart and start over. (This was certainly detrimental to my life during my middle school's mission to fold 3,000 paper swans.)

But I understand the beauty of spontaneity and organic creation. There's something special in realizing that no two recreations of my grandpa's fried rice will ever be the same, and really, isn't that what life is? Creation, without recipe?

It's funny. This may contradict everything I've written thus far, but the more I bake, the more I realize perhaps baking is spontaneous too. I don't always need to weigh my flour beforehand in order to get perfect cookies, nor do I really need to add the copious amounts of sugar the recipe calls for. My signature food is brownies, but I challenged myself to use a different recipe every time. You'd be surprised at how different brownies taste when you add an extra egg, and you'd be especially uncertain about my baking skills if you tried my brownies that had wayyy too much baking soda (trial and error…).

I'm learning to love improvisation. It's not mutually exclusive with loving precision, and it's such an integral part of my culture, I'd be missing out otherwise. Coming to terms with and embracing the unknown is scary and definitely a process, but I assure you: One day, I'll master my own fried rice.

Whether I was blowing out candles, writing a letter to santa, or waiting for the clock to turn 11:11, my one wish growing up was not for something, but for someone. I wanted a sibling. I would always look to my friends and think how lucky they were to have brothers and sisters to play with, while I was stuck at home alone with my parents.

However, these sentiments soon changed and my life was transformed, when my parents came home with my new sister, Mia. And while Mia was a furry, Lhasa Apso dog, rather than the human baby sister or brother I dreamed of, she helped me accept and even cherish my life as an only child. I came to realize, however, that it would take much longer for me, and much more than a dog, to accept the other ways I felt alone within my group of friends and my community as a whole.

Living in a predominantly white town and attending a school with a population of about 75% white students has had a huge impact on the way I view my Filipino self. While my friends ate turkey and cheese sandwiches at lunch, I would secretly pick at the traditional adobo chicken my mom had sent me that day. I stood by as my classmates made jokes stereotyping and generalizing Asians into one category, even though I knew there were vast differences in our cultures. During social studies classes, I noticed that I learned more about the ancestry of my friends, rather than my own. Consequently, I began to accept the notion that my heritage was of less importance and something to be ashamed of. I masked the pungent aromas of the Filipino delicacies my immigrant parents made with pasta and hamburgers when my friends came over, I laughed off incidents when parents or teachers would mistake me for the only other Filipino girl in my grade, and I recognized that learning solely about European and East Asian history in world history classes was the norm. I started to believe that assimilation was the only pathway to acceptance, along with the only way I could feel less alone within my community.

It was not until I entered high school that I realized how wrong I was. Although I did not encounter an increase in diversity in terms of ethnicity, I saw an increase in the spectrum of perspectives around me. Through electives, clubs, and activities, the student body I was met with since my freshman year was open-minded, as well as politically and culturally active and engaged, and I immediately joined in. At speech and debate tournaments, I talked with students from across the globe, while at discussions between the High School Democrats Club and Young Conservatives Club at my school, I enjoyed listening and being exposed to different viewpoints. Suddenly, I was no longer willing to feel defeated and instead began to feel confident in displaying my Filipino pride. I introduced my friends to an array of Filipino dishes from lumpia to toron, I asked my social studies teachers questions about the history and current state of the Philippines, and I no longer saw myself and my background as what differentiated me from others and caused my feelings of aloneness, but as something that I should embrace.

I changed my narrative from "alone" to "unique," and I strive to spread the message that being different can and should be the norm to my peers. I would not be who I am without my Filipino background, and although the community I live in is what previously made me feel alone, it is also what gave me the potential to learn, grow, and broadened my appreciation for what made me unique.

My eyes widen. "It's all Greek to me," I whisper under my breath. Sure enough, The Apology by Plato is in Greek.

My eyes dart across the page, looking for a word or phrase to grasp onto. Unable to find a familiar word, I take a deep breath. The Greek letters jumble into incoherent words and I am left to the mercy of an incomplete translation. I shake my head, unsure of what to do next. My eyes drag from one word to another, heavy with defeat. Upon the sixth word, however, they stop. My initial scan of the text left me negligent of a simple word meaning "number." Passion overwhelms my senses. "Number" becomes the most important word of the clause, providing context to the adjacent words. I turn to the lexicon and search for words that fit into a coherent translation. With the last word, I feel satisfaction and pride. The whirlwind of emotions repeats: Confusion, passion, satisfaction. Before the bell rings, I finish translating 20 lines of The Apology.

I was fifteen when I successfully translated The Apology, and soon after, I fell in love with translation. Through translation, I learned the value of perseverance and hard work; it even helped me convey ideas in different mediums such as figure skating.

On a bright January morning, cold wind slapped against my face, chastising me for falling again. I stood up and brushed thin sheets of ice off of my knees. A shock of pain went through my body as I lightly touched a new bruise. I contemplated defeat. In the midst of choreographing my next program, I speculated the translation of music into skating. I yearned to convey every pitch and emotion in a visual performance, so I listened to Chopin once again and closed my eyes. Upon hearing the cadenza, I went back on the ice, picked up speed and turned my body. Leaping from the ground, I wrapped my arms around my torso and spun one, two, three times. My body descended and a sharp skid sounded the air. I smiled, waiting in anticipation for the next jump. That day, I translated every note into a jump until my body understood the music.

Translation has become my frame for viewing life and now I am using it to translate passion into activism.

In July 2018, part of my activism was conservation focused. Recognized as a Discovery Guide Leader, I was chosen to lead a Mugwort removal cleanup at Meadow Lake. The tedious logistical process of scheduling a time, obtaining a permit, and learning the proper removal process made July a strenuous month. Still seeking to translate my plan into action, I persevered with the importance of conservation in mind.

Finally, the day came. Twenty pairs of eyes watched me as I pointed out Mugwort along the shore. The hot sun hit my back as I pushed the shovel deeper in the soil. The ground released its hold on the plant and I picked it up by the stem. I walked throughout the shore and helped each person learn the proper removal technique. Together we were able to eliminate 4.2 pounds of Mugwort. I was proud of everyone and myself. I learned the benefits of conservation, translated that knowledge into a productive plan to remove an invasive species, and spread that knowledge by leading my eager group of volunteers.

Despite translating The Apology by Plato years ago, the lessons I learned from translation continue to thrive in my actions today. Just as I translated texts from Greek to English, I will convert more songs into programs, and I will change more plans into action. Although there are still many things in the world that are all Greek to me, I strive to learn and translate my knowledge into action that creates change.

I could still hear her words, the words my teacher said as she handed me the packet, "This is a challenge. But I think you're up for it." I held the math packet in my hand. On the cover, the title 'Mission Possible!' screamed at me. I could feel my fingers tingling, and the goosebumps rolling up my arms. I stared at the black italicized letters of the title as I walked home. They seemed to stare back, alluding to the mysteries that lay underneath them. As soon as I got home, I ran to the top bunk where I slept, grabbed a pencil, and signed a mental contract with the packet: "I, Zerubabel, promise to prioritize you, put you above all else in my life, not rest, and not eat until all the problems that lay in your pages are solved." I was a pretty dramatic 11-year-old.

This is but one example of the many challenges I've faced throughout my life. My love for challenges and the tenacity with which I approach them was instilled in me through observing my family and through my own experiences. Ten years ago, my family and I packed our belongings, sold everything we had, and flew across the Atlantic to our new home in America. During our first year in Minnesota, we were faced with the omnipresent challenge of money. My sister, rather than having the comfort of her crib, was forced to share a bed with my mom and I. My dad was forced to sleep on a makeshift bed my mom made for him every night, using cushions from a torn and scratchy old sofa. My mom was forced to wake up early and stay up late working, at home, and her minimum wage job. My parents never complained. To them, this was just another stage of life, another challenge to overcome. They worked tirelessly-my mom providing stability by maintaining one job while my dad, the creative one, was always switching between multiple in his pursuit for better pay. With each day, the consequences of their hard work showed; one bed became two, the second bed split into a bunk, and within that little room, each of us had a bed to sleep on.

I now reflect on this, and many other challenges my family and I have faced during our ten years in America. I realize that it is through observing how my parents never slowed down that I learned the value of perseverance, through watching my mom's devotion to a single job that I learned the value of commitment, through my dad's consistent job switches that I learned the value of ambition, and through observing my sisters willingness to live with less that I learned the value of sacrifice. Through my own experiences, I learned I can apply these values and overcome any challenge that comes my way. My 11-year-old self figured this out after a grueling two months of working on the packet, finishing with all the questions answered.

Throughout my time in middle and high school, my value of ambition has led me to take the most challenging courses available at my school. In my community, my value of commitment has allowed me to serve at my church for the past five years. These learned values have molded me into the person I am today and will continue to guide me as I pursue my goals in life. It is because of these values and the way they were instilled in me that I have decided to pursue a career as a surgeon; I know it is through the guidance of these values and the people who first showed them to me that I will be able to achieve this goal.

It was a wet and dreary October evening. I shook off the dirt from my cleats on the concrete with frustration. Click, clack, click. The sound echoed through my head until I finally rested my heavy legs on the wooden bench in front of my locker. Up until that practice, I had done everything just the way I had the year before in the Netherlands, yet I still did not reap the same successes. At home, I relished being on the national under 15 field hockey team, consistently having high grades, and knowing just about everyone. At Deerfield, however, simply doing my best at practice, finishing my homework and socializing did not yield the same results. Looking down, I began to wonder why I had ever moved to Deerfield and traded my field hockey gear for muddy soccer cleats.

In search for answers, I decided to tell Deerfield's field hockey coach about my tough transition. But instead of an answer, Ms. McVaugh offered me to join a girls' field hockey practice. I felt thrown off by the unusual opportunity at first, yet I quickly relished a warm rush of excitement surging through my veins as I imagined putting on field hockey cleats again. When I set foot on the turf the following day, however, my initial anxiety rejoined my exuberance. I felt more eyes turning towards me with each step I made. "Boys do not play field hockey," I could hear the girls think. As I trailed behind the girls during the warm-up, the thought of quitting seemed more tempting with each second of silence that passed. But when the whistle blew and the ball was finally in play, I was surprised to see how quickly the gender barrier vanished. Where there was silence and separation at first, I could now see the shared fanaticism through our red faces and hear the emotion in our clamor. At the end of practice, I felt a burning glow of joy overtake my body as I caught my breath on the bench. In that moment, I gradually realized how I should not let obstacles, like gender boundaries in field hockey, hold me back from exploring new opportunities.

Realizing the joy I had found in trying the unconventional, I took this experience to the soccer field to take on its new athletic challenges once again. Rather than agonizing over playing time or titles, I simply redirected my focus on the joy and beauty of the sport. Within days, I noticed the same atmosphere of sweat and screams from the turf take hold of the soccer field. Over time, this helped me take in feedback more readily, ask questions about tactics, and try out new skills. With each new improvement I made through this, I slowly began to grasp the value of my new approach to the sport.

As a result, I decided to bring the same open, curious, and risk-taking mindset with me to the other opportunities that boarding school holds. In the classroom, I began asking deeper questions to fully comprehend new material. Back in the dorm, I turned the cultural differences between my peers into opportunities to learn from and contribute back to. From truly grasping nucleophile-electrophile reactions in organic chemistry to sharing Dutch 'stroopwafels' with my hall, such moments remind me of why I sacrificed my field hockey gear to go to Deerfield; even as my new mindset gradually led to the grades, friendships, and even athletic achievements I sought before, I realized that I value the exploration, growth and joy behind such successes far more.

Now, before I put on my cleats, walk into the classroom or enter my dorm, I do not worry about the successes I might fail to reach or the obstacles that might hold me back. Rather, I pour my heart into such opportunities and take their experiences with me.