Taking your essay
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My laptop is like a passport. It is plastered with stickers all over the outside, inside, and bottom. Each sticker is a stamp, representing a place I've been, a passion I've pursued, or community I've belonged to. These stickers make for an untraditional first impression at a meeting or presentation, but it's one I'm proud of. Let me take you on a quick tour:

"We <3 Design," bottom left corner. Art has been a constant for me for as long as I can remember. Today my primary engagement with art is through design. I've spent entire weekends designing websites and social media graphics for my companies. Design means more to me than just branding and marketing; it gives me the opportunity to experiment with texture, perspective, and contrast, helping me refine my professional style.

"Common Threads," bottom right corner. A rectangular black and red sticker displaying the theme of the 2017 TEDxYouth@Austin event. For years I've been interested in the street artists and musicians in downtown Austin who are so unapologetically themselves. As a result, I've become more open-minded and appreciative of unconventional lifestyles. TED gives me the opportunity to help other youth understand new perspectives, by exposing them to the diversity of Austin where culture is created, not just consumed.

Poop emoji, middle right. My 13-year-old brother often sends his messages with the poop emoji 'echo effect,' so whenever I open a new message from him, hundreds of poops elegantly cascade across my screen. He brings out my goofy side, but also helps me think rationally when I am overwhelmed. We don't have the typical "I hate you, don't talk to me" siblinghood (although occasionally it would be nice to get away from him); we're each other's best friends. Or at least he's mine.

"Lol ur not Harry Styles," upper left corner. Bought in seventh grade and transferred from my old laptop, this sticker is torn but persevering with layers of tape. Despite conveying my fangirl-y infatuation with Harry Styles' boyband, One Direction, for me Styles embodies an artist-activist who uses his privilege for the betterment of society. As a $42K donor to the Time's Up Legal Defense Fund, a hair donor to the Little Princess Trust, and promoter of LGBTQ+ equality, he has motivated me to be a more public activist instead of internalizing my beliefs.

"Catapult," middle right. This is the logo of a startup incubator where I launched my first company, Threading Twine. I learned that business can provide others access to fundamental human needs, such as economic empowerment of minorities and education. In my career, I hope to be a corporate advocate for the empowerment of women, creating large-scale impact and deconstructing institutional boundaries that obstruct women from working in high-level positions.

"Thank God it's Monday," sneakily nestled in the upper right corner. Although I attempt to love all my stickers equally (haha), this is one of my favorites. I always want my association with work to be positive.

And there are many others, including the horizontal, yellow stripes of the Human Rights Campaign; "The Team," a sticker from the Model G20 Economics Summit where I collaborated with youth from around the globe; and stickers from "Kode with Klossy," a community of girls working to promote women's involvement in underrepresented fields.

When my computer dies (hopefully not for another few years), it will be like my passport expiring. It'll be difficult leaving these moments and memories behind, but I probably won't want these stickers in my 20s anyways (except Harry Styles, that's never leaving). My next set of stickers will reveal my next set of aspirations. They hold the key to future paths I will navigate, knowledge I will gain, and connections I will make.

As I enter the double doors, the smell of freshly rolled biscuits hits me almost instantly. I trace the fan blades as they swing above me, emitting a low, repetitive hum resembling a faint melody. After bringing our usual order, the "Tailgate Special," to the table, my father begins discussing the recent performance of Apple stock with my mother, myself, and my older eleven year old sister. Bojangle's, a Southern establishment well known for its fried chicken and reliable fast food, is my family's Friday night restaurant, often accompanied by trips to Eva Perry, the nearby library. With one hand on my breaded chicken and the other on Nancy Drew: Mystery of Crocodile Island, I can barely sit still as the thriller unfolds. They're imprisoned! Reptiles! Not the enemy's boat! As I delve into the narrative with a sip of sweet tea, I feel at home.

"Five, six, seven, eight!" As I shout the counts, nineteen dancers grab and begin to spin the tassels attached to their swords while walking heel-to-toe to the next formation of the classical Chinese sword dance. A glance at my notebook reveals a collection of worn pages covered with meticulously planned formations, counts, and movements. Through sharing videos of my performances with my relatives or discovering and choreographing the nuances of certain regional dances and their reflection on the region's distinct culture, I deepen my relationship with my parents, heritage, and community. When I step on stage, the hours I've spent choreographing, creating poses, teaching, and polishing are all worthwhile, and the stage becomes my home.

Set temperature. Calibrate. Integrate. Analyze. Set temperature. Calibrate. Integrate. Analyze. This pulse mimics the beating of my heart, a subtle rhythm that persists each day I come into the lab. Whether I am working under the fume hood with platinum nanoparticles, manipulating raw integration data, or spraying a thin platinum film over pieces of copper, it is in Lab 304 in Hudson Hall that I first feel the distinct sensation, and I'm home. After spending several weeks attempting to synthesize platinum nanoparticles with a diameter between 10 and 16 nm, I finally achieve nanoparticles with a diameter of 14.6 nm after carefully monitoring the sulfuric acid bath. That unmistakable tingling sensation dances up my arm as I scribble into my notebook: I am overcome with a feeling of unbridled joy.

Styled in a t-shirt, shorts, and a worn, dark green lanyard, I sprint across the quad from the elective 'Speaking Arabic through the Rassias Method' to 'Knitting Nirvana'. This afternoon is just one of many at Governor's School East, where I have been transformed from a high school student into a philosopher, a thinker, and an avid learner. While I attend GS at Meredith College for Natural Science, the lessons learned and experiences gained extend far beyond physics concepts, serial dilutions, and toxicity. I learn to trust myself to have difficult yet necessary conversations about the political and economic climate. Governor's School breeds a culture of inclusivity and multidimensionality, and I am transformed from "girl who is hardworking" or "science girl" to someone who indulges in the sciences, debates about psychology and the economy, and loves to swing and salsa dance. As I form a slip knot and cast on, I'm at home.

My home is a dynamic and eclectic entity. Although I've lived in the same house in Cary, North Carolina for 10 years, I have found and carved homes and communities that are filled with and enriched by tradition, artists, researchers, and intellectuals. While I may not always live within a 5 mile radius of a Bojangle's or in close proximity to Lab 304, learning to become a more perceptive daughter and sister, to share the beauty of my heritage, and to take risks and redefine scientific and personal expectations will continue to impact my sense of home.

At six years old, I stood locked away in the restroom. I held tightly to a tube of toothpaste because I'd been sent to brush my teeth to distract me from the commotion. Regardless, I knew what was happening: my dad was being put under arrest for domestic abuse. He'd hurt my mom physically and mentally, and my brother Jose and I had shared the mental strain. It's what had to be done.

Living without a father meant money was tight, mom worked two jobs, and my brother and I took care of each other when she worked. For a brief period of time the quality of our lives slowly started to improve as our soon-to-be step-dad became an integral part of our family. He paid attention to the needs of my mom, my brother, and me. But our prosperity was short-lived as my step dad's chronic alcoholism became more and more recurrent. When I was eight, my younger brother Fernando's birth complicated things even further. As my step-dad slipped away, my mom continued working, and Fernando's care was left to Jose and me. I cooked, Jose cleaned, I dressed Fernando, Jose put him to bed. We did what we had to do.

As undocumented immigrants and with little to no family around us, we had to rely on each other. Fearing that any disclosure of our status would risk deportation, we kept to ourselves when dealing with any financial and medical issues. I avoided going on certain school trips, and at times I was discouraged to even meet new people. I felt isolated and at times disillusioned; my grades started to slip.

Over time, however, I grew determined to improve the quality of life for my family and myself.

Without a father figure to teach me the things a father could, I became my own teacher. I learned how to fix a bike, how to swim, and even how to talk to girls. I became resourceful, fixing shoes with strips of duct tape, and I even found a job to help pay bills. I became as independent as I could to lessen the time and money mom had to spend raising me.

I also worked to apply myself constructively in other ways. I worked hard and took my grades from Bs and Cs to consecutive straight A's. I shattered my school's 100M breaststroke record, and learned how to play the clarinet, saxophone, and the oboe. Plus, I not only became the first student in my school to pass the AP Physics 1 exam, I'm currently pioneering my school's first AP Physics 2 course ever.

These changes inspired me to help others. I became president of the California Scholarship Federation, providing students with information to prepare them for college, while creating opportunities for my peers to play a bigger part in our community. I began tutoring kids, teens, and adults on a variety of subjects ranging from basic English to home improvement and even Calculus. As the captain of the water polo and swim team I've led practices crafted to individually push my comrades to their limits, and I've counseled friends through circumstances similar to mine. I've done tons, and I can finally say I'm proud of that.

But I'm excited to say that there's so much I have yet to do. I haven't danced the tango, solved a Rubix Cube, explored how perpetual motion might fuel space exploration, or seen the World Trade Center. And I have yet to see the person that Fernando will become.

I'll do as much as I can from now on. Not because I have to. Because I choose to.

It was Easter and we should've been celebrating with our family, but my father had locked us in the house. If he wasn't going out, neither were my mother and I.

My mother came to the U.S. from Mexico to study English. She'd been an exceptional student and had a bright future ahead of her. But she fell in love and eloped with the man that eventually became my father. He loved her in an unhealthy way, and was both physically and verbally abusive. My mother lacked the courage to start over so she stayed with him and slowly let go of her dreams and aspirations. But she wouldn't allow for the same to happen to me.

In the summer before my junior year I was offered a scholarship to study abroad in Egypt. Not to my surprise, my father refused to let me go. But my mother wouldn't let him crush my dreams as well. I'd do this for myself and for my mothers unfulfilled aspirations. I accepted the scholarship.

I thought I'd finally have all the freedom I longed for in Egypt, but initially I didn't. On a weekly basis I heard insults and received harassment in the streets, yet I didn't yield to the societal expectations for women by staying indoors. I continued to roam throughout Egypt, exploring the Great Pyramids of Giza, cruising on the Nile, and traveling to Luxor and Aswan. And before I returned to the U.S. I received the unexpected opportunity to travel to London and Paris. It was surreal: a girl from the ghetto traveling alone around the world with a map in her hands. And no man or cultural standards could dictate what I was to do. I rode the subway from Cambridge University to the British Museum. I took a train from London to Paris and in two days I visited the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Notre Dame Cathedral, and took a cruise on the Seine. Despite the language barrier I found I had the self-confidence to approach anyone for directions.

While I was in Europe enjoying my freedom, my mother moved out and rented her own place. It was as if we'd simultaneously gained our independence. We were proud of each other. And she vicariously lived through my experiences as I sent her pictures and told her about my adventures.

Finally, we were free.

I currently live in the U.S with my mother. My father has gradually transformed from a frigid man to the loving father I always yearned for. Life isn't perfect, but for the moment I'm enjoying tranquility and stability with my family and are communicating much better than ever before.

I'm involved in my school's Leadership Council as leader of our events committee. We plan and execute school dances and create effective donation letters. I see this as a stepping-stone for my future, as I plan to double major in Women's Studies and International Relations with a focus on Middle Eastern studies. After the political turmoil of the Arab Spring many Middle Eastern countries refuse to grant women equal positions in society because that would contradict Islamic texts. By oppressing women they're silencing half of their population. I believe these Islamic texts have been misinterpreted throughout time, and my journey towards my own independence has inspired me to help other women find liberation as well.

My Easter will drastically differ from past years. Rather than being locked at home, my mother and I will celebrate outdoors our rebirth and renewal.

When I was 16, I lived with the Watkins family in Wichita, Kansas. Mrs. Watkins was the coordinator of the foreign exchange student program I was enrolled in. She had a nine-year-old son named Cody. I would babysit Cody every day after school for at least two to three hours. We would play Scrabble or he would read to me from Charlotte's Web or The Ugly Duckling. He would talk a lot about his friends and school life, and I would listen to him and ask him the meanings of certain words. He was my first friend in the New World.

My second family was the Martinez family, who were friends of the Watkins's. The host dad Michael was a high school English teacher and the host mom Jennifer (who had me call her "Jen") taught elementary school. She had recently delivered a baby, so she was still in the hospital when I moved into their house. The Martinez family did almost everything together. We made pizza together, watched Shrek on their cozy couch together, and went fishing on Sunday together. On rainy days, Michael, Jen and I would sit on the porch and listen to the rain, talking about our dreams and thoughts. Within two months I was calling them mom and dad.

After I finished the exchange student program, I had the option of returning to Korea but I decided to stay in America. I wanted to see new places and meet different people. Since I wasn't an exchange student anymore, I had the freedom — and burden — of finding a new school and host family on my own. After a few days of thorough investigation, I found the Struiksma family in California. They were a unique group.

The host mom Shellie was a single mom who had two of her own sons and two Russian daughters that she had adopted. The kids always had something warm to eat, and were always on their best behavior at home and in school. It would be fair to say that this was all due to Shellie's upbringing. My room was on the first floor, right in front of Shellie's hair salon, a small business that she ran out of her home. In the living room were six or seven huge amplifiers and a gigantic chandelier hung from the high ceiling. The kitchen had a bar. At first, the non-stop visits from strangers made me nervous, but soon I got used to them. I remember one night, a couple barged into my room while I was sleeping. It was awkward.

After a few months I realized we weren't the best fit. In the nicest way possible, I told them I had to leave. They understood.

The Ortiz family was my fourth family. Kimberly, the host mom, treated me the same way she treated her own son. She made me do chores: I fixed dinner, fed their two dogs Sassy and Lady, and once a week I cleaned the bathroom. I also had to follow some rules: No food in my room, no using the family computer, no lights on after midnight, and no ride unless it was an emergency. The first couple of months were really hard to get used to, but eventually I adjusted.

I lived with the Ortiz family for seven months like a monk in the deep forest. However, the host dad Greg's asthma got worse after winter, so he wanted to move to the countryside. It was unexpected and I only had a week to find a new host family. I asked my friend Danielle if I could live with her until I found a new home. That's how I met the Dirksen family, my fifth family.

The Dirksen family had three kids. They were all different. Danielle liked bitter black coffee, Christian liked energy drinks, and Becca liked sweet lemon tea. Dawn, the host mom didn't like winter, and Mark, the host dad, didn't like summer. After dinner, we would all play Wii Sports together. I was the king of bowling, and Dawn was the queen of tennis. I don't remember a single time that they argued about the games. Afterward, we would gather in the living room and Danielle would play the piano while the rest of us sang hymns.

Of course, those 28 months were too short to fully understand all five families, but I learned from and was shaped by each of them. By teaching me English, nine year-old Cody taught me the importance of being able to learn from anyone; the Martinez family showed me the value of spending time together as a family; the Struiksma family taught me to reserve judgment about divorced women and adopted children; Mrs. Ortiz taught me the value of discipline and the Dirksen family taught me the importance of appreciating one another's different qualities.

Getting along with other people is necessary for anyone and living with five families has made me more sensitive to others' needs: I have learned how to recognize when someone needs to talk, when I should give advice and when to simply listen, and when someone needs to be left alone; in the process, I have become much more adaptable. I'm ready to change, learn, and be shaped by my future families.

Golden light streaks my bedroom. It's 6am. Before my family rises, I'll have completed half my day's to-do list; but before I start, I look to my wall, where 84 (and counting) 2.4 x 1.8 glossy Polaroids hang in 14 uniform rows.

Top row, four Polaroids over: I sit beside my Chinese grandmother, speaking Mandarin. Her mouth of cracked teeth stretch into a smile, as this was our first time sharing a fluent conversation. Previously frustrated with our inability to converse, I'd tackled Mandarin classes, determined to connect with my extended family. My teary eyes twinkle as I remember nights buried in textbooks, doubting whether I'd become proficient before the cancer took her. Grandma's wrinkled hands envelop mine, sharing mutual gratitude for my choice to make the most of our time left together.

Images of acrylic paints, calligraphy pens, and camera equipment are woven into the sea of snapshots. Whether it's the light drizzle of Morton's Salt, quenching the watercolor's richness (Row 5, 7 left), or the clean-cut curves of my Tombow pen (Row 7, 2 left), art has been my outlet since the age of 2. Most influential is my passion for portrait photography, which led me to create my photography business. Typical weekends involve guiding clients through photoshoots, styling a guest's hair/makeup, editing in Adobe Lightroom, or researching new advertising opportunities. My work has taught me the importance of flexibility; when sunny forecasts turn to dark clouds (classic Seattle), being flexible allows me to make the most of a rainy session by, for example, having a couple hold an umbrella as I capture the bride's warm smile.

My eyes wander the rows, reliving each scene. Suddenly, I'm hurled into a warehouse, an infant's onesie between my hands. The photo captures two friends, determined to continue their love of community service. What started as 6th graders occasionally helping at food banks soon grew into 12th graders' weekly commitment to service. The camera's flash overexposes my arm, wide around a crate of baby clothes, one of many that local families rely on. The crate also symbolizes consistency within my own life; these Monday evenings at Eastside Baby Corner allow me to support my community while bonding with others who share this passion.

Row 9, 8 left: a figure in red shirt and khakis, name tag reading "Target Cashier: Meili." Little did I know my weekly 25 hours could bring so much joy and learning. Each work day provides opportunities to console frustrated guests, or simply boost someone's Sunday Target run with a bubbly welcome. The greatest skill I've learned, one that will serve me well in the business world, is how to handle unpleasant customers. I've been insulted, yelled at, and looked down upon. Yet, I know my ability to handle these situations with grace leaves both me and the customer better off. Additionally, my job has inspired me to practice gratitude. After seeing countless families unable to purchase necessities, it's impossible to not feel grateful for what I have. Each of my Polaroids takes me to someplace where I'm safe, loved, free; for that, I begin each day remembering life, at its very core, is a gift.

Row 14, 1 left: dark waves, licking my surfboard's tail. May afternoon in California. Though I'm no pro surfer, my craving for adventure brings me to the water. That same yearning draws me to ziplines and roller coasters galore. My curiosity has provided learning experiences, an expanding network, and the discovery of my passions.

Not every photo carries life's highlights. Many feature little moments: lunch with friends, watching movies with dad… but I've realized life isn't just the big moments. It's everything in between: good, bad, significant, minute. Life's details are essential to create meaning.

My wall is far from being covered; and I know wherever I go, my Polaroid is ready to capture the next moment.

Note that there are three (not five) decisions that made the final draft of this essay. You may end up brainstorming more than five for this exercise, and, like this student, you may end up keeping fewer than five in your essay.

Three decisions have marked important periods of growth in my life.

In 9th grade I took part in a study abroad program in Bath, England, where I experienced a sense of intellectual and social freedom that I'd never before experienced. I was exposed to a vibrant community with a diverse population of students. I felt challenged and inspired. At the conclusion of the program I had to make a choice: attend a U.S boarding school or return home? I considered both options: on one hand I would miss my family since they would be far away, but on the other hand I would miss the opportunity for a better education. After some internal debate, I decided on a third option by enrolling at a boarding school in Jordan, 1,655 km away from my family in Bahrain, instead of one 11,600 km away in the U.S. I'm so glad I did, as I've been able to grow and challenge myself intellectually whether through decoding Fisher King's role in T.S. Eliot's The Wasteland or learning about the implications of Keynesian economics and Adam Smith's invisible hand — plus, I'm able to visit my parents more often.

In 10th grade when I arrived at my new school most students were already part of a defined group. There was a clear line that divided the group members especially between the Jordanians, the Arabian Gulf nationals, and the "foreigners". At first, the students didn't know which group to place me in because, although I was Saudi, my Syrian/Jordanian Arabic dialect from my mother led the Arabian Gulf nationals to see me as Jordanian. But since I didn't have any relations to Jordan, the Jordanians didn't think I belonged with them either. While they tried to decide, I refused to be labelled as part of either group and moved freely, engaging with everyone. Because, in the end, why should I have to choose? I was also an athlete and a nerd: I played basketball and swam on the weekends, while after school I spent time teaching myself to code.

But what has perhaps shaped my life even more than these decisions has been my indecision — the moments before I make a clear choice. And while I see how my deliberation sometimes takes time — something that sometimes annoys my friends and family — as I've grown older, I have come to see how my indecision has been incredibly useful. In those seconds before I decide I see who my choices affect, the consequences of my decision, and the variety of different views that may affect my decision.

I've learnt so much from these moments, as it's in these seconds that new choices can be created, new experiences discovered, and unforeseen complications found. Without my indecision, for example, I may never have learnt to ski or gone parasailing because if I had quickly made the decision I would have only thought about the risk involved without contemplating the possibility of enjoying and benefiting from the experience.

I have also realized that there are some decisions that are simply too difficult for me to make in an instant: As the only non-Jordanian person in the room, for example, do I speak up in class during conversations on the Palestinian conflict? Or when one of my peer advisees is sharing about her homesickness, do I share how I've personally dealt with it, or simply listen? These moments have allowed me to acknowledge that at times, when I don't have enough information to make a decision, I must patiently wait for the right moment at which I might come to the best resolution.

It's fitting, perhaps, that I'll be checking 'undecided' on my application. While I love economics and psychology, I am also really into biology. And I've come to realize that sometimes not choosing… is actually a choice. In fact, sometimes it's the best choice.

I've always found myself in two worlds — one that looks to the sky and one that looks to the ground, one in the future and one in the past.

I've collected rocks for as long as I can remember, sparked by an instinctive impulse towards discovery. They are fragments of our steady and ancient Earth, representing a past beyond all memory, and I find it amazing that it is up to us to discover them, and find stories in them. I still recall clearly my excitement to take part in my school's cross country race held at a fossil-lined shore, and how I placed last in said race because I had filled my pockets with fossils. They are still sitting in a glass on my table, each pebble nearly identical to the other. But they remind me that on a bright cross-country day, I had discovered a painting in each pebble.

My collection fervor was more than just a literal stroll on the beach. I attended rock shows (no, not that kind, I mean actual exhibitions of rocks), and taught myself the chemical makeup and physical properties of the specimens I encountered there. Gradually, my collection changed from "translucent rock" and "dark pebble" into a procession of aragonite, hematite, malachite… But I never stopped collecting pebbles from the ground, for I now understand even clearer the pricelessness of nature's seemingly random combinations.

Rocks aren't the only things I collect. For just as long, I've collected dandelion fluff. While others despised them, I clutched them close like little pockets of opportunity, a promise for a next year with new tufts of short yellow flowers and puffy seeds. More recently, I began to collect old books. The fragile pages, the heavy scent, perhaps an owner's name inked in flourish — they soak up time. Like rocks, they connect me to the past, but books offer up a human past.

Though I love the flowers and rocks of our Earth, I also love the cold vastness of space. It is not enough to just collect trinkets of the past when the unknown sky is above me. In "city star parties" with the Royal Astronomical Society of Canada, I look away from the small bright dots of the surrounding city and towards the small bright dots above. Some lights are a million worlds. Some lights have already flickered out, their demise unbeknownst to us. But I think the best is what I cannot see in a telescope's field of view — the universe's beginning and its possible end, black holes that supposedly vanish information, particles so small as to be affected by their observation — all of which I have just begun to explore, either in my independent study project, co-op placement, or online courses. I think that the answers to the most fundamental questions we ask today must be found in the furthest reaches of human science and thought.

When I look up, my mind jumps to find infinity in both time and space, and I find myself shrinking down to a point deep in history, next to my old books and my rocks. After all, space unfolds so slowly — the fifty million years for our Sun to form is as quick as lightning, and when Andromeda lights up our galaxy I'll have fallen to where Earth's beginning seems to us now. But this is why I collect these things, and why I want to study Astronomy and Astrophysics. I am finding where I am. My heart is on the Earth and my aspirations have traversed space. I stand at the forefront of time, nostalgic for the past I collect but have never known. I know that I am already a pinprick in the past, but I still want to discover things for the future to know. By remembering the past, I remember myself too, and by watching the sky, I see myself and where I stand, here and now.

When I summited Mount Saint Helens for the first time, all I had with me was a disposable camera, multiple sunburns, and excessive reusable water bottles, my comfort zone left far below at base camp. Though the cheap, plastic camera, the only thing grounding me to earth, barely did the landscape justice, it still displayed the small details within a magnificent landscape that I had never before noticed — dusty footprints, snow-like ash, and billowing steam, the clouds miles below.

Since then, I have grown to respect the environment that surrounds me as a place to honor, not just exist benignly alongside. These days, shooting with a Nikon D300, I see my role within the Pacific Northwest community as a natural documentarian, committed to helping others experience the same sense of wonder a volcano once showed me.

As I have continued to develop my skills, my connection to different communities has also been strengthened through photography, especially through documenting my faith. Though I was raised in a Jewish household, when I began to focus on it as a subject, I came to understand it even more personally. NFTY-NW, the youth group of the Union for Reform Judaism, has become my second home. Though tradition and rituals were always part of my life, finding my own connection to the traditions in NFTY helped me find a deeper connection to Judaism, allowing me to now dive headfirst into the opportunity to relive my customs, and mature with them as well.

As regional photographer and Communications Vice President, the responsibility to capture each moment of my second home has allowed me to further identify with my own culture by seeing how other people relate to it. While my camera lacks the ability to capture the ageless melodies of the prayers sung by one unified voice during traditional events, the feeling of my community is clearly evident in each photo. I see my role in my religious community as someone who helps others to find their connections to traditions and faith the same way I found my own.

Growing up outside of Seattle, my photography focused on the beauty of the growing skyline. But I eventually turned my camera toward the cranes building up amenities for a new wave of citizens and sweeping away the culture I had come to love. Instead of choosing to accept the changes inflicted upon my city, I decided to investigate the reasons behind them. For my AP research paper, I focused on gentrification caused by the powerhouse companies moving in. I created an accompanying photojournalism project where I documented the changes: a chain-link fence surrounding a preschool with a coffee empire's logo casting shadows on the ground, a bookstore with a closing sale sign in the window, and newsstands full of front page articles on Seattle's demographic shifts.

Documenting the dramatic changes helped me not only to become aware of the dangers of large-scale shifts, but, most impactfully, how the meaning behind community is created by each person who lives there. As my photography skills have developed, so has my recognition of the need for social justice. I see my role in my home community as a guide to encourage my fellow citizens to become active participants in what is happening to their neighborhoods.

As I write this, the lessons I have learned studying journalism and photojournalism at the School of the New York Times remain prominent in my mind: "The difference between a good story and a great story is patience." I now realize that my story is one about finding the patience to linger on the little details in life, whether they be in my own or in the lives around me. And now that I have achieved that patience, to transform the details I've captured into documents of perseverance, empathy, and activism, my story has embarked on a new chapter, wherever it may lead next.