“Christians are not supposed to ‘just have faith.’ Christians are commanded to know what they believe and why they believe it.” ~Norman L. Geisler, “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist” I’d heard of “apologetics” — the logical defense of the Christian faith — before I first read “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist” by Frank Turek and Norm L. Geisler in my sophomore year; however I had little grasp of what it really meant. Growing up in a Christian home, I certainly had faith, but I also had many questions that I was too scared to ask. Maybe I feared discovering a “crack” in Christianity, something to indicate that the world I’d always known was a lie. I knew “ex-Christians” claimed they found such things. So instead of seeking truth, I bottled my unanswered questions inside; the pressure of these put a strain on my faith. Furthermore, this made talking about Jesus among my friends seem impossible. How could I answer their questions if I didn’t have the answers? I don’t remember how I learned about “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist”; maybe my pastor mentioned it in a sermon or maybe I saw it on the internet. Regardless, the title intrigued me: does atheism really require faith? I found the audiobook at the library and was instantly hooked. Turek and Geisler’s argument intends to build up from the most basic belief; this means that they start at the very baseline, assuming the reader does not believe in truth. From there, they expand, proving why there is a Creator, how the Bible aligns with reality, why the Bible can be trusted, and so on. I recently had a conversation with one of my close friends during lunch one school day, almost a year after I’d first read Turek and Geisler’s book. Raised in a “culturally Catholic” home, she considered herself an agnostic, unsure of God’s existence. Somehow, talking about choir and about the guys we liked, our conversation turned to faith. “Tell me about Jesus,” she said at my mention of Him, to which I asked, “Well, what do you already know?” For the next half hour, I joyfully explained the gospel to my friend who had never heard it before. She peppered me with questions, genuinely curious to learn, and unlike how two years ago, I wasn’t afraid of them anymore. I didn’t have all the answers. However, I now had the confidence in my faith to admit that I didn’t know and offer to investigate further. The prospect of finding “cracks” no longer scared me. As the bell rang, my friend departed, telling me, “I still have so many more questions; we need to talk about this more.” I remembered later that I’d been praying over my unbelieving friends that morning and asked God for a conversation exactly like that. Reading “I Don’t Have Enough Faith to Be an Atheist” gave me confidence and inspired me to delve deeper into my relationship with God. Since then, seeing Him work so clearly in my life has sealed my belief. I don’t get lost in doubts as often as I once did. I know that if I have a question, I can seek out the answer confidently. 1 Peter 3:15 commands, “Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have.” I’m so grateful to be in the process of strengthening my relationship with God, and through that, learning how to give a stronger defense for my faith.

According to the National Foster Youth Institute, if a child enters the foster care system at the age of twelve, on the cusp of their teenage years, there is a 40% chance that they will be legally emancipated upon their 18th birthday; in other words, 40% of those pre-teens will spend the rest of their childhood in the system. Out of the 23,000 children in America who age out of the foster care system each year, 20% will be homeless instantly, 75% will not graduate from high school, 97% will never get a college degree, 50% will not have a well-paying job by the age of 24. I don’t think I’m the only one who finds this infuriating and heartbreaking. As part of a former foster family, I feel lucky that the two little girls who stayed in my home—girls I still consider sisters, even years later—were able to return to their real families. This is not the case for everyone. Once they reach their teenage years, the likelihood that children in foster care will be adopted plummets. This is primarily for the reason that teenagers are less appealing to families. Newborn babies, toddlers, and even six-, seven-, or eight-year-olds still have the “cuteness” factor; prospective families wouldn’t “fear” them in the same way they would a teenager. Maybe they’re afraid of welcoming a child into their home who is wild, violent, an addict, mentally ill, or even just a stereotypical moody, sassy, unpleasant teenager. Or maybe some families aren’t ready to support a teenager. The reasons vary from home to home, but the truth remains: 23,000 children age out of the system every year and after that, many of their futures look dim. I want this to change. Once I’m old enough and have reached a stable point in my life, I want to foster and/or adopt teenagers who are at risk of aging out of the system. I also want to adopt siblings, another group especially at risk in the system, as many siblings (including one of the girls my family fostered) are separated while in foster care. Currently, I volunteer for Our Village Closet, a local organization which provides clothing, toys, and supplies to foster children and foster families; in the coming years, I hope to expand my volunteering work to help another organization called Foster the City, which aims to get churches involved in foster care, whether that’s by taking children into their home, or by providing support to other foster families. In an ideal world, my full-time job would someday relate to improving foster care and encouraging families who may be wary of foster care to welcome children who need love into their homes.

Before I knew what the word meant, my parents taught me to say, “Scholarships!” whenever they asked, “How are you going to pay for college?” Their budgeting inspired me to make a budget of my own. The allowance system they put in place taught me that money doesn’t fall out of the sky; you have to work for it. They supervised the lemonade stands I had with my brothers and let us have our own corner of garage sales to sell our old things and encouraged us to be generous with the money we made. My parents established in me financial knowledge which I believe will serve me for the rest of my life. Generational wealth, in its traditional sense, is important. Of course, I want to leave my kids money they can put towards good things — education for my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, traveling the world, donations to charities whose missions they admire and want to support. But at the same time, I don’t think that’s the end of the story. If some unanticipated event eats up all of the money I passed on, for example, all the work I put in with the motivating idea of supporting the future of my descendants vanishes in an instant. I believe a huge part of generational wealth isn’t just passing on money, but passing on financial knowledge and literacy. By teaching my children from a young age the safest way to invest in the stock market, I can hopefully keep them from either losing all of their money by investing in a crashing market or the opposite: avoiding stocks at all costs for fear of losing all of their money. By teaching them how to budget and stay aware of their paychecks and expenses, I can protect them from forgetting to pay a bill or spending money they don’t have and ending up in debt. By teaching them good forms of passive income, I can help them continue to make money even if they’re unable to work. To me, generational wealth doesn’t just mean making a lot of money to leave to my kids when I die or investing in mutual funds so my money will live on. Generational wealth means teaching my kids, like my parents did, how to use money responsibly and with intention, so that even if the stock market crashes or some terrible accident leaves them penniless, they’re always able to bounce back on their feet with the lessons I taught them.

I fell in love with math through broccoli popsicles. Well, sort of. For years, I despised numbers. All throughout elementary and into middle school, I dreaded my math textbook and pushed my homework until the last minute. It wasn’t that it was too difficult for me; I just didn’t want to put in the effort. And because I put in so little effort, I struggled to understand some concepts, and in a vicious cycle, my hatred persisted. I never even solidly learned the 1-10 multiplication facts most memorize, and to this day, I rely on the skip-counting songs which I learned in second for some mental calculations. However, once I got to 7th grade, my perspective of math was flipped around. I didn’t know what to expect from my new math teacher—slightly awkward, curly-haired Mr. Jason—when I met him on the first day of 7th grade, but I’d lost hope in ever enjoying math so I doubted a new teacher would change my mind. I was wrong! For the first time in my life, math became fun. Mr. Jason didn’t only teach to the textbook; he gave us critical thinking problems and challenged us to think about numbers in new ways. For example, he once sent us home with an extra credit homework assignment of using different operations to get to the numbers 1-20 using four fours—or example, (4/4)*(4/4)=1, 4+4+4+4=16, 4*4+root 4+root 4=20 (eleven was my favorite, but it’s a bit too complicated to type out… so try it on your own!). One day, we calculated which student had the largest percentage of vowels in their name (the clear winner was Olivia). Another day, we watched a video of a man debating with Verizon customer service the difference between .002 dollars and .002 cents. And even when he taught us the standard curriculum, he still made sure my classmates and I always had fun. He showed us how to use Google Sheets to calculate interest, showed us videos, engaged the class in discussions, and assigned us surprisingly fun projects. He often gave us worksheets in groups with admittedly bizarre word problems, often involving things such as (you guessed it!) broccoli popsicles. Since his class, I’ve excelled in the subject. I skipped standard 8th grade math, moving to Math 1, high school freshman-level, that year. I’ve taken all honors classes, and in my freshman year, I received the Honors Math 2 Academic Excellence Award. Next year, I plan on taking a Trig/Pre-Calc at my local junior college through dual enrollment, and Mathematics or Statistics are my top major choices for college. I’m forever thankful for Mr. Jason for teaching me to see numbers in a new light; no matter my path in life, I’ll always retain my love for mathematics.

“I hate running.” We were out of earshot of the coach standing at the cross-country kiosk, but my words were still harsh. “You should have signed up,” my mom told me, but I shook my head. Only crazy people run just to run. And then somehow, four months later, I found myself walking down the sidewalk of my school at ten in the morning (during winter break of all times!), my hair pulled back tight in a low ponytail, wearing my mom’s old Nike shirt. “Track and field preconditioning,” the email said; I hadn’t even known what “preconditioning” meant. The frigid humidity stung my legs, which were used to skinny jeans, not running shorts. For a moment, I wanted to turn around and run back to my car, where I could turn the heat on, where I felt safe. Why am I doing this? I screamed to myself in my head, I shouldn’t be here, what the heck am I doing here? I inhaled. The crisp winter’s morning air was full of dewdrops yet to land and I felt the cold mist as it traveled through my nose and into my lungs, bringing a chill to my body, but it was… invigorating somehow. I walked through the chain link gate and up to the track with a little more confidence than I had before. When the coach introduced herself—Carrie. Not Coach, not Mrs; just Carrie—she looked familiar, and then I realized: she was the same one from the cross-country kiosk. Practice started and I felt welcomed instantly. The others showed me what to do when I didn’t understand. The star sprinter who hadn’t lost a race since freshman year talked to me, the new girl who ran far behind everyone else all day. There was lots of laughter, lots of joking around, lots of friendship and love and community. It was one of the first new groups I’ve ever walked into and felt neither invisible nor unwanted. It wouldn’t be long before I felt the thrill of the track, the reason these kids do what they do. Walking to the starting line. Runners, to your marks. Get set. The “BANG” of a gunshot. Taking off, spikes dig into the ground with a muffled thud, propelling forward, faster, faster, faster, faster. Then crossing the finish line. Skid to a stop. Heaving breaths, high fives. Overwhelming pride because even though I didn’t win, I gave it every ounce of effort I could give. But I didn’t come back the next cold morning because of that thrill; I came back because of the joy of being part of a team.

I’m lucky to have parents who know how to deal with money well, and their example has helped me establish a healthy relationship with my finances. Money is a tool, but many fall into the trap of craving money itself, rather than what it can do. We can use money as a catalyst for great things if we know how to use it properly. I enjoy making money, and I can imagine almost everyone does, but I live my life with a financial goal—or rather, goals—in mind. My first goal is to graduate college with no student loan debt. That’s why I’m applying for scholarships! I see how debt affects people and I don’t want something like that hanging over my head for years after I get a college degree. Education is important, but the aftermath shouldn’t be painful. My second goal is to become financially independent; this is a dream that stems from my parents, who are working towards the same thing. I believe there’s a way to live my life so that I don’t have to constantly worry about putting food on the table, making sure I have enough money to pay my bills, and still living a happy life. I hope that by starting early—I began working towards FI at fifteen—I can live my life with little financial stress. My third goal is to do as much good as I possibly can in the world with my money. Putting my money towards the things that matter most to me is important, and it can mean many different things. I’m passionate about St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital and also children in foster care, and plan to use my money to make a difference in those areas. My “Bucket List of Random Things” highlights some of my other priorities as well: “give someone a huge tip,” “start a scholarship,” and “donate a couple hundred dollars on www.donorschoose.org to teachers” are only a few of my ideas. As I said before, we can use money as a catalyst for great things. In order to manage my finances well, I use a budget. I don’t have a large income, as I’m an athlete and have many extracurriculars that prevent me from taking a traditional job. However, I make money elsewhere and my budget helps me know how much I’m able to spend, save, or donate. I know where my income goes at all times so that I never lose track of my money. I always make sure to remember, however, that money is not the most important thing in my life. I don’t spend frivolously, but I never cut corners to save money if it means I sacrifice my time or relationships. I want to leave a legacy of financial literacy so that more people can use their money to help improve the world.

I wrote this poem, one of my first, when I was twelve just after another devastating wildfire tore through my county only two years after the one we thought was a once-in-a-lifetime tragedy. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Again. How could it happen again? We thought it was over. We thought we’d lived through the worst. We knew we’d lived through the worst. Everyone was prepared—we’d learned from last time. We had go-bags: Special photos, letters, keepsakes Everything in one place. “Just in case” But no one really thought we would need them. Last time was different. No one was ready. No one expected it. Midnight. An orange glow behind the mountains. Driving away; leaving home. Fear. Destruction The power is out; the garage won’t open, So a woman, nine months pregnant, Escapes on a bike, Two daughters on her back, Husband running behind. Propane tanks explode around police officers As they desperately try to evacuate the elderly from a mobile home park. A family gets a call at midnight. “Get out—now!” This is what it does to people. But why again? Now, lying in bed. Trying to ignore the howling wind. Its roars sound like thunder, But to hope for rain… Then a phone call. A knock on the door. A family member shakes us awake. “Get out—now!” What? This has happened before. How could it happen again?

According to the National Foster Youth Institute, if a child enters the foster care system at the age of twelve, on the cusp of their teenage years, there is a 40% chance that they will be legally emancipated upon their 18th birthday; in other words, 40% of those pre-teens will spend the rest of their childhood in the system. Out of the 23,000 children in America who age out of the foster care system each year, 20% will be homeless instantly, 75% will not graduate from high school, 97% will never get a college degree, 50% will not have a well-paying job by the age of 24. I don’t think I’m the only one who finds this infuriating and heartbreaking. As part of a former foster family, I feel lucky that the two little girls who stayed in my home—girls I still consider sisters, even years later—were able to return to their real families. This is not the case for everyone. Once they reach their teenage years, the likelihood that children in foster care will be adopted plummets. This is primarily for the reason that teenagers are less appealing to families. Newborn babies, toddlers, and even six-, seven-, or eight-year-olds still have the “cuteness” factor; prospective families don't "fear" them in the same way they would a teenager. Maybe they’re afraid of welcoming a child into their home who is wild, violent, an addict, mentally ill, or even just a stereotypical moody, sassy, unpleasant teenager. Or maybe some families aren’t ready to support a teenager. The reasons vary from home to home, but the truth remains: 23,000 children age out of the system every year and after that, many of their futures look dim. I want this to change. Once I’m old enough and have reached a stable point in my life, I want to foster and/or adopt teenagers who are at risk of aging out of the system. I also want to adopt siblings, another group especially at risk in the system, as many siblings (including one of the girls my family fostered) are separated while in foster care. Currently, I volunteer for Our Village Closet, a local organization which provides clothing, toys, and supplies to foster children and foster families; in the coming years, I hope to expand my volunteering work to help another organization called Foster the City, which aims to get churches involved in foster care, whether that’s by taking children into their home, or by providing support to other foster families. In an ideal world, my full-time job would someday relate to improving foster care and encouraging families who may be wary of foster care to welcome children who need love into their homes.

I first heard “You Can Rest” by Hillary Scott on a wonky day. I don’t remember what happened, but it’d left the uncomfortable feeling of quiet anxiety—something I too often felt—hanging over me as I sat in my bedroom that evening. I felt unstable. For no reason, I turned on some music while I got ready for the youth group my friend invited me to every week only to ignore me; “You Can Rest” was the first song that played. It began like this: “When your weary heart is hurting or you're feeling so alone When you think that you're a burden or nowhere feels like home When everything feels like it's changing and you don't understand why Trying so hard to be strong and brave but so tired you wanna cry” Immediately, I felt a lift. They didn’t offer a solution or a cure for my pain, but I’d never heard lyrics that so closely related to how I felt. It continued: “Don't forget as you fall asleep To lay it all at the Father's feet You can rest, you can rest In the one who never breaks His promises Close your eyes, talk to Him When you're scared and feel the darkness rolling in In your worry and your pain, just breathe in and out His name Jesus, oh, Jesus And you can rest” The reminder felt like breathing fresh air after suffocating for hours. Of course; even when life sucks, even when I feel unstable, I can always go to Jesus. Some days my anxiety is stronger than that day. Sometimes it won’t dissipate with a simple song, no matter how strong the message. But "You Can Rest" is always always a reminder that, even when everything else changes, I have a solid Rock who never will.

I've always admired the courage of Martin Luther. I'm not talking about Martin Luther King Jr. (though he's certainly an incredibly inspiring figure as well!); I'm talking about the German monk from the early 16th century, one of the first to question the morality of the Catholic church. When Luther became a monk, the church had strayed from Biblical teachings. They taught that good works were required to get into heaven. To save yourself from "purgatory," torture where your soul was purified before entering heaven, you had to pay money to the church. Luther read the Bible and this, along with many other traditional Catholic practices, didn't make sense to him: these didn't match Jesus' teachings. The more he ruminated on this feeling that something was off, the stronger he felt so and more he realized he needed to do something about it. Luther wrote the 95 Theses, things he believed were corrupt about the Catholic church, and posted them on the door of All Saints' Church in Germany. I am far from one to question authority, but I've always wished I had the courage to do so. Martin Luther not just questioned authority, he questioned the religion he'd grown up believing in. He saw truth and just because it was different from what he'd been taught his whole life didn't scare him away from sharing it with the world. I admire his courage in speaking out when he found flaws in tradition. Martin Luther was not a perfect person. He was Antisemetic, speaking out violently against Jews, and was flawed beyond that as well. I obviously don't admire all of his qualities, but his courage to stand up for the truth, even though it was the opposite of what the world believed, is something I aspire to have.

“Get rich quick” schemes sound so enticing. After all, who doesn’t want to become a millionaire in five minutes? I certainly would. But the truth about making money is that to succeed, you need to have patience. Passive income is key — that’s the advice I got from my mom, who began creating and selling digital worksheets for kids online. At first, she did a lot of work and made very little profit, putting hours and hours of effort into her store where she was making less than ten dollars a month. But slowly, her business began to grow. As of today, she hasn’t added any new products to her online store, she’s making over a thousand dollars each month, and her profits are still growing. It’s taken me a lot of work to come to terms with passive income. Because frankly, I’m an impatient person! When I need money for something I want it now, I want that “get rich quick” scheme. But I’ve had to teach myself that instant gratification isn’t the way. Making money takes patience and sometimes a lot of effort, but if you know what you’re doing, that effort pays off.

Sitting in my bedroom with my ukulele in hand or at my keyboard working out the lyrics to my latest song is one of my favorite places to be. I’ve loved music since I was little; I can remember running around my kitchen singing the lyrics to “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus at the top of my lungs when I was two. I started taking piano lessons in second grade and voice lessons when I was ten. But it wasn’t until I was thirteen that I discovered songwriting. I was horrible at it first, of course, but even before I grew my abilities, I realized that it was the outlet I’d never had. I’d been writing since I could read, and it was something I’d always loved, but while my stories had always been about other fictional people, my songs were about me. I wrote about missing the friends I grew apart from and the boys I liked. It was like I’d never identified completely with songs I’d heard, so I created my own. I’m not the world’s greatest songwriter, and chances are, I never will be. And though I would love to someday, I may never even get the chance to show the world anything I’ve written, which is okay. Songwriting is incredible and I’m so grateful I discovered it, even if it’s just for me.

Some people are naturally generous; I am not one of those people. In my head, my goals are generous: I want to become financially independent so that I can put more time, effort, and money into helping people. But in doing that, I’ve noticed that I’ve become so focused on my goals—becoming a landlord, going to college, etc, which have monetary expenses—that I’ve started ignoring good things I can do with my money now. My situation reminds me of the Bible story where Jesus and his disciples were at the temple treasury. Rich citizens came and donated large amounts of money, but then along a poor widow came up and gave two small copper coins, worth very little. Jesus pointed this woman out to his disciples and said, “This poor widow has put more into the treasury than all the others. They all gave out of their wealth; but she, out of her poverty, put in everything—all she had to live on.” I realize I’m in the position of the widow, but instead of donating my two coins, I’m keeping them to myself, eyes locked on becoming like the rich who can give much more money. This isn’t a bad goal in itself, but I’m withholding what I have now from people who might need something from me. One tactic I’ve started using is whenever I make a purchase, I donate a dollar to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital; when I was younger, I held lemonade stands to support the charity, but as I grew older, I began running them for personal gain. While a dollar isn’t much, it’s helping me become more generous slowly but steadily. I hope that someday, I can teach myself to become overwhelmingly generous and help those who have less than I do without anxiety.

I’m a Christian and since I was little, I was taught to love others, but I never fully understood what love really was. I loved my family, sure (no matter how annoying my little brothers were), but loving my peers had always been conditional. If they were nice to me, sure, I’d say I loved them. But if they did even the smallest thing that irked me, I’d instantly turn against them. I was quiet, “polite,” and would never say anything to their faces, but inside I criticized their every action. When I started 9th grade at a public school after being homeschooled for seven years, I experienced a culture shock: I was surrounded by hundreds of people who I had little in common with. Instantly, I was drawn to people who were like me; I befriended the girl in PE class who I later found out also loved to sing. A boy whom I met and instantly clicked with on the second day of school turned out to be a Christian like I am. A boy from my English class I ended up running track with. But the group boys in my PE class whose favorite activity was yelling curse words or like the girl in my theater class who came to see a musical I was in outside of school and said she could have played every role better? These people were harder to love. But I’ve started looking for the positive sides of all of these people. Those boys in my PE class? They turned out to be really nice people -- I’m friends with one of them now. That girl from theater? She’s actually extremely creative, friendly, and loyal. It’s still hard to love them sometimes, but I’m improving every day.

I quit Girl Scouts at the age of thirteen. I’d joined my troop four years prior, but had never felt like I really belonged. Most of the others had been part of the troop since they were in kindergarten, so they were already close-knit. I’d stepped into an already-formed community and wasn’t very accepted. I had always looked at my younger brother’s Cub Scout pack with envy. They had campouts. They went on hikes. They learned valuable skills like cooking, knife safety, and first aid. When he aged out of Cub Scouts, he became a Boy Scout with Troop 32, the most admired troop in our area, known for being adventurous, orderly, and well-run. By that time, girls were allowed into Scouting, but I couldn’t just join any all-boys troop; there had to be a group of girls already in place. 32 didn’t have any girls, so I had to find another troop. I looked at several, but it was right in the beginning of the COVID-19 pandemic and everything was on Zoom. Nothing interested me, and I eventually stopped looking. Fast forward one year later. One Monday night, my dad, an Assistant Scoutmaster with 32, came home from the scout meeting and gave me some exciting news: four girls and two women had come to the meeting that night, and were starting a girls’ troop. I was ecstatic -- I’d always admired Troop 32 and here was my chance to become a part of it! I went to the meeting the next week. There were only four other girls, none of whom I had met before, but it was immediately so different than my girl scout troop had been. That night, talking and laughing with those four girls, I instantly felt like I belonged. In the beginning, we did both opening and closing flags -- which include announcements, posting the US flag, and reciting our scout oath and law at the beginning of the meeting and more announcements and retiring the colors at the end -- together, with both the boys and girls; we conducted our meetings separately. But after only a few weeks, the girls were asked to conduct our own flags ceremonies. We agreed -- we would continue meeting at the same time and place, but we would no longer be conducting our meetings together. As the number of girls grew, we invited the boys to events we planned such as swim test practices for camp and ropes course trips, and their leaders reciprocated some invitations, but overtime, it became a norm that whenever I heard of an event the boys were holding, I’d have to ask, “Are girls allowed?” before I could add my name to the sign-up sheet. One summer, we were invited to ride with the boys to summer camp, and on the outside, it seemed like a kind and inclusive gesture, a step in the direction we were aiming for. Looking into it, however, they were renting a bus to ride up to camp. Their leaders had decided to invite us solely because having our girls pitch in for the cost would bring prices down for them. We denied their offer. The girls in my troop are still working towards acceptance from the boys’ leaders, and we will continue to do so. Scouting isn’t just for boys. Troop 32 isn’t just for boys. The girls exist too, we are part of Troop 32 just like they are, and we will make our voices heard.

The stock market is often, if not almost always, discussed with a negative connotation. I’ve had countless people tell me that stocks are a ripoff and not worth it. And they’re not entirely wrong; buying shares of individual companies has the potential to lead to huge losses. But that’s exactly the problem: buying shares of individual companies. All of the money you invest is attached to one company. If they go bankrupt, you lose everything you’ve invested. And unless you choose the perfect stock, it’s unlikely you’ll make a huge profit even if you don’t lose anything. That’s why mutual funds are so awesome! Mutual funds are essentially mico-shares of a large quantity of companies all in one stock. Unlike with individual stocks, whose peaks and dips don’t usually correlate with others, mutual funds fluctuate with the overall market. Over time, the market always grows; therefore, it’s guaranteed that if you wait long enough, you will make a profit. I first invested in mutual funds when I was thirteen. Over less than a year and a half, I’ve invested a little over $1300 and seen a growth of nearly $280 – that’s pretty good pay for doing nothing! Investing in mutual funds is something that isn’t nearly as well-known as it should be, and I believe it’s important that people learn about how to invest in the stock market without anxiety or risk.

Music has always been one of my favorite things in life. I remember dancing around my kitchen and screaming the lyrics to songs like “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, “Umbrella” by Rihanna, and (my favorite), “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas when I was three. When I was four, my grandma, an organist, taught me how to sit at the piano and play “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” In 3rd grade, I started taking piano lessons, and when I was ten, I started taking voice. It wasn’t until a year or so later that I discovered songwriting. My first song was terrible, and I knew it full well as I wrote it. It was entitled “Those Were The Days” and was about missing my friend who, a few years before, had moved away. It never had a real melody and most lyrics were only there to rhyme with the previous line and therefore didn’t make any sense. But even though I knew how awful it was, I didn’t give up. I wrote song after song, and every one I wrote was just a bit better than the one before. I discovered that songwriting was the outlet I’d always needed. I wrote songs about the boy I liked at church, about missing my friend on the other side of the country, about growing apart from my friend from elementary school, and about how I didn’t know how to help my two best friends who were dealing with depression. Songwriting has helped me turn the best, worst, weirdest, and most confusing moments of my life into something beautiful, and helps me process the craziness that goes on around me. It makes me happy, even when things are rough, and I’ll always cherish the joy it brings to my life.

Before I even knew what the word meant, my parents taught me to answer the question “How are you going to pay for college?” with “Scholarships!” It wasn’t until middle school that I realized how vital scholarships were to getting a college education. I’ve loved creative writing since preschool and when I learned that in doing so, I could earn hundreds or thousands of dollars towards my college, I was ecstatic. I was 12 at the time, however, and struggled to find scholarships that I could apply for. I can remember counting down the days until my 13th birthday, the age which opened up a whole new world of websites that now allowed me to apply. I did the same thing when I entered high school. Scholarships are incredible assets for students. They lessen the financial burden of getting an education, something that everyone should be able to do, and they can sometimes provide paths for students who wouldn’t be able to attend college otherwise. I am going to fund my college education without taking out any student loans. However, I’ll only be able to reach that goal with the help of scholarships. Thank you so much for considering helping me achieve my dreams!

Music has always been one of my favorite things in life. I remember dancing around my kitchen and screaming the lyrics to songs like “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, “Umbrella” by Rihanna, and (my favorite), “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas when I was three. When I was four, my grandma, an organist, taught me how to sit at the piano and play “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” In 3rd grade, I started taking piano lessons, and when I was ten, I started taking voice. It wasn’t until a year or so later that I discovered songwriting. My first song was terrible, and I knew it full well as I wrote it. It was entitled “Those Were The Days” and was about missing my friend who, a few years before, had moved away. It never had a real melody and most lyrics were only there to rhyme with the previous line and therefore didn’t make any sense. But even though I knew how awful it was, I didn’t give up. I wrote song after song, and every one I wrote was just a bit better than the one before. I discovered that songwriting was the outlet I’d always needed. I wrote songs about the boy I liked at church, about missing my friend on the other side of the country, and about how I didn’t know how to help my two best friends who were dealing with depression. Songwriting has helped me turn both the best and worst moments of my life into something beautiful, and helps me process the craziness that goes on around me. It makes me happy, even when things are rough, and I’ll always cherish the joy it brings to my life.

It’s nearly impossible to go somewhere in my hometown without passing by someone pushing all of their belongings down the sidewalk in a shopping cart, asleep on the side of the road, or standing on the corner holding up a cardboard sign with a few words written in sharpie asking for help. Every time I drive by a homeless person on the street, I instantly feel guilty, like I’m not giving enough away to help people who don’t have what I do. Every year on Easter Sunday, my church left our building and met in the town square and served a bunch for the homeless instead, while our pastor preached to whoever wanted to listen. There, I met and talked to many people who were so incredibly kind and friendly. They were so grateful for the meal we served, and it hurt to see such genuinely good people sleeping out in the cold every night and not knowing where they were going to get their next meal or how long it would take to find work. It’s shown me how privileged I am, living in a home with two loving and supportive parents, getting a good education, and being taught important life skills, and it’s inspired me to use my privilege for the benefit of others. With my life, I want to do as much good as I possibly can for homeless people. Whether what I can do is as big as start a nationwide movement or as small as get some friends together every month to put together bags of food to hand out around my town, all I want to do is make an impact in the life of someone who needs a little hope.

It’s nearly impossible to go somewhere in my hometown without passing by someone pushing all of their belongings down the sidewalk in a shopping cart, asleep on the side of the road, or standing on the corner holding up a cardboard sign with a few words written in sharpie asking for help. Every time I drive by a homeless person on the street, I instantly feel guilty, like I’m not giving enough away to help people who don’t have what I do. Every year on Easter Sunday, my church left our building and met in the town square and served a bunch for the homeless instead, while our pastor preached to whoever wanted to listen. There, I met and talked to many people who were so incredibly kind and friendly. They were so grateful for the meal we served, and it hurt to see such genuinely good people sleeping out in the cold every night and not knowing where they were going to get their next meal or how long it would take to find work. It’s shown me how privileged I am, living in a home with two loving and supportive parents, getting a good education, and being taught important life skills, and it’s inspired me to use my privilege for the benefit of others. With my life, I want to do as much good as I possibly can for homeless people. Whether what I can do is as big as start a nationwide movement or as small as get some friends together every month to put together bags of food to hand out around my town, I just want to do something that makes an impact in the life of someone who needs a little hope. That’s the kind of legacy I want to leave.

In 5th grade, there was a boy in my class who I absolutely despised. For the sake of his privacy, we’ll call him Anthony. Anthony teased me, mocked me, and looked over my shoulder at my paper because he knew I hated it. It wasn’t a lot, I know, but for some reason, I couldn’t stand him. I glared at him when he wasn’t looking. I wrote terrible things about him in my diary. I never said anything mean to his face, but if I’d had the courage, I know I would have. This went on for two years and he never knew. I don’t remember how or why it happened, but slowly, I got to know Anthony better. He and I were never really friends, but talking to each other occasionally and having real conversations, I started to see a person I’d never known before. Anthony was funny, friendly, creative and kind; nothing like the one-dimensional, annoying kid I’d always thought he was. I learned about how hard his life at home was. I had judged him before I actually knew him or what he was going through. There I’d been, only weeks before, writing furiously in my diary about what a terrible person he was when my real enemy was the one holding the pen. Anthony taught me one of the most valuable lessons I’ve ever learned. He taught me how to love the people who are hardest to love. He helped me genuinely care for everyone, from my best friend to kids who make fun of me at school. I’m still working on it, but I would be so much further away from where I am now without him. Anthony will never know how much he has changed me for the better, but I will never forget.

It’s nearly impossible to go somewhere in my hometown without passing by someone pushing all of their belongings down the sidewalk in a shopping cart, asleep on the side of the road, or standing on the corner holding up a cardboard sign with a few words written in sharpie asking for help. Every time I drive by a homeless person on the street, I instantly feel guilty, like I’m not giving enough away to help people who don’t have what I do. Every year on Easter Sunday, my church left our building and met in the town square and served a bunch for the homeless instead, while our pastor preached to whoever wanted to listen. There, I met and talked to many people who were so incredibly kind and friendly. They were so grateful for the meal we served, and it hurt to see such genuinely good people sleeping out in the cold every night and not knowing where they were going to get their next meal or how long it would take to find work. It’s shown me how privileged I am, living in a home with two loving and supportive parents, getting a good education, and being taught important life skills, and it’s inspired me to use my privilege for the benefit of others. With my life, I want to do as much good as I possibly can for homeless people. Whether what I can do is as big as start a nationwide movement or as small as get some friends together every month to put together bags of food to hand out around my town, I just want to do something that makes an impact in the life of someone who needs a little hope.

Music has always been one of my favorite things in life. I remember dancing around my kitchen and screaming the lyrics to songs like “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, “Umbrella” by Rihanna, and (my favorite), “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas when I was three. When I was four, my grandma, an organist, taught me how to sit at the piano and play “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” In 3rd grade, I started taking piano lessons, and when I was ten, I started taking voice. It wasn’t until a year or so later that I discovered songwriting. My first song was terrible, and I knew it full well as I wrote it. It was entitled “Those Were The Days” and was about missing my friend who, a few years before, had moved away. It never had a real melody and most lyrics were only there to rhyme with the previous line and therefore didn’t make any sense. But even though I knew how awful it was, I didn’t give up. I wrote song after song, and every one I wrote was just a bit better than the one before. I discovered that songwriting was the outlet I’d always needed. I wrote songs about the boy I liked at church, about missing my friend on the other side of the country, and about how I didn’t know how to help my two best friends who were dealing with depression. Songwriting has helped me turn both the best and worst moments of my life into something beautiful, and helps me process the craziness that goes on around me. It makes me happy, even when things are rough, and I’ll always cherish the joy it brings to my life.

Music has always been one of my favorite things in life. I remember dancing around my kitchen and screaming the lyrics to songs like “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, “Umbrella” by Rihanna, and (my favorite), “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas when I was three. When I was four, my grandma, an organist, taught me how to sit at the piano and play “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” In 3rd grade, I started taking piano lessons, and when I was ten, I started taking voice. It wasn’t until a year or so later that I discovered songwriting. My first song was terrible, and I knew it full well as I wrote it. It was entitled “Those Were The Days” and was about missing my friend who, a few years before, had moved away. It never had a real melody and most lyrics were only there to rhyme with the previous line and therefore didn’t make any sense. But even though I knew how awful it was, I didn’t give up. I wrote song after song, and every one I wrote was just a bit better than the one before. I discovered that songwriting was the outlet I’d always needed. I wrote songs about the boy I liked at church, about missing my friend on the other side of the country, and about how I didn’t know how to help my two best friends who were dealing with depression. Songwriting has helped me turn both the best and worst moments of my life into something beautiful, and helps me process the craziness that goes on around me. It makes me happy, even when things are rough, and I’ll always cherish the joy it brings to my life.

It’s nearly impossible to go somewhere in my hometown without passing by someone pushing all of their belongings down the sidewalk in a shopping cart, asleep on the side of the road, or standing on the corner holding up a cardboard sign with a few words written in sharpie asking for help. Every time I drive by a homeless person on the street, I instantly feel guilty, like I’m not giving enough away to help people who don’t have what I do. Every year on Easter Sunday, my church left our building and met in the town square and served a bunch for the homeless instead, while our pastor preached to whoever wanted to listen. There, I met and talked to many people who were so incredibly kind and friendly. They were so grateful for the meal we served, and it hurt to see such genuinely good people sleeping out in the cold every night and not knowing where they were going to get their next meal or how long it would take to find work. It’s shown me how privileged I am, living in a home with two loving and supportive parents, getting a good education, and being taught important life skills, and it’s inspired me to use my privilege for the benefit of others. With my life, I want to do as much good as I possibly can for homeless people. Whether what I can do is as big as start a nationwide movement or as small as get some friends together every month to put together bags of food to hand out around my town, I just want to do something that makes an impact in the life of someone who needs a little hope. That’s the kind of mark I want to leave.

When I tell people I want to buy a rental property when I turn eighteen, most people think I’m crazy. Verbally, most people have never said that to my face, but I can tell when others think it’s a stupid and impossible goal. And honestly, I understand why; it sounds lofty and, quite frankly, unattainable. My parents taught me about money since I could talk. By the time I was four, I knew exactly how to answer the question “How are you going to pay for college?” — “Scholarships!” They warned me of the dangers of student loan debt. They helped me with all of my lemonade stands and craft sales and helped me set up my bank account. And most importantly, they never told me my goals were unattainable — which is probably where my ambition comes from. When I had lemonade stands, my best friend Katia was almost always the one standing beside me. We always shared the same amount of stubborn ambition, and often used it in various money-making ventures, but never with a concrete end goal. We were only ten and eleven when we, taking inspiration from her parents and their real estate goals, decided that we wanted to buy a rental property together. We set a goal of doing so when we were eighteen, and have stuck with that dream for four years. Yes, it’s an ambitious goal, and that doesn’t do anything but encourage Katia and me to put all of our effort toward it. Thanks to everything we’ve already done, we’re closer to that goal than I could have ever thought possible when we started, and every day, we continue to inch closer to our dream, one dollar at a time.

When I tell people I want to buy a rental property when I turn eighteen, most people think I’m crazy. Verbally, most people have never said that to my face, but I can tell when others think it’s a stupid and impossible goal. And honestly, I understand why; it sounds lofty and, quite frankly, unattainable. My parents taught me about money since I could talk. By the time I was four, I knew exactly how to answer the question “How are you going to pay for college?” — “Scholarships!” They warned me of the dangers of student loan debt. They helped me with all of my lemonade stands and craft sales and helped me set up my bank account. And most importantly, they never told me my goals were unattainable — which is probably where my ambition comes from. When I had lemonade stands, my best friend Katia was almost always the one standing beside me. We always shared the same amount of stubborn ambition, and often used it in various money-making ventures, but never with a concrete end goal. We were only ten and eleven when we, taking inspiration from her parents and their real estate goals, decided that we wanted to buy a rental property together. We set a goal of doing so when we were eighteen, and have stuck with that dream for four years. Yes, it’s an ambitious goal, and that doesn’t do anything but encourage Katia and me to put all of our effort toward it. Thanks to everything we’ve already done, we’re closer to that goal than I could have ever thought possible when we started, and every day, we continue to inch closer to our dream, one dollar at a time.

Music has always been one of my favorite things in life. I remember dancing around my kitchen and screaming the lyrics to songs like “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, “Umbrella” by Rihanna, and (my favorite), “I Gotta Feeling” by the Black Eyed Peas when I was three. When I was four, my grandma, an organist, taught me how to sit at the piano and play “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” In 3rd grade, I started taking piano lessons, and when I was ten, I started taking voice. It wasn’t until a year or so later that I discovered songwriting. My first song was terrible, and I knew it full well as I wrote it. It was entitled “Those Were The Days” and was about missing my friend who, a few years before, had moved away. It never had a real melody and most lyrics were only there to rhyme with the previous line and therefore didn’t make any sense. But even though I knew how awful it was, I didn’t give up. I wrote song after song, and every one I wrote was just a bit better than the one before. I discovered that songwriting was the outlet I’d always needed. I wrote songs about the boy I liked at church, about missing my friend on the other side of the country, and about how I didn’t know how to help my two best friends who were dealing with depression. Songwriting has helped me turn both the best and worst moments of my life into something beautiful, and helps me process the craziness that goes on around me. It makes me happy, even when things are rough, and I’ll always cherish the joy it brings to my life.

When I was evacuated from a wildfire at the age of ten and arrived at the home of my friend who lived an hour away, we decided almost immediately that we wanted to do something to help the people who were affected by the fire. For three days, we made all sorts of things from origami frogs and booklets with inspirational sayings with a plan to sell them to raise money. When we decided we were ready, we took to my friend’s neighborhood with a wagon full of all that we had made. After fifteen minutes, we’d made a few sales and had around seven dollars. We decided to go to just one more door. We walked to the next home, rang the doorbell and a woman answered the door. We told her that we were raising money for the victims of the fire, and she seemed touched, telling us that she was evacuated as well and that this was her friend’s house. She said she didn’t need anything from our wagon, but told us to wait for a moment while she went to get her purse. When she returned, she wrote a check and handed it to us. When we looked at it, we were shocked: she had given us three-hundred dollars! We thanked the woman as best we could, and then hurried home to tell our parents the exciting news. Using the money we earned, my friend and I bought several Amazon gift cards and I gave them out to several of my friends who lost their homes in the fire. The gift that that woman gave us was one of the greatest I’ve ever received, because it showed me what true generosity looks like, and it gave me the ability to give and bring joy to others.

If someone told my ten-year-old self that in three years I’d be taking a musical theater class with two Broadway actresses, I doubt I’d believe you. It wasn’t that I wasn’t into music or theater. I’d been playing piano since I was three when my grandma taught me how to play “Mary Had A Little Lamb.” At seven, I started taking piano lessons, but truthfully, I didn’t enjoy them. Maybe it was because plunking through songs carelessly titled “Vegetable Marching Song” while saying the name of every note aloud as I played it wasn’t my idea of fun. I loved making music, but though I didn’t want to admit it, I dreaded the thought of wasting half an hour every Tuesday repeating the same song over and over again, only to go back home and play it for another week because it wasn’t perfect yet. I quit after two years and didn’t plan on going back. When I was ten, my mom’s friend said she was teaching voice and piano lessons. While voice lessons intrigued me, piano sounded less than exciting. She, however, offered an idea: if I took both piano and voice lessons, I could sing and accompany myself. I had to admit, that sounded pretty awesome! I agreed. Before the first day, she told me to pick a song I wanted to play. That was what changed my perspective of music forever. Instead of playing songs that sounded suspiciously like the C major scale someone had slapped some words about a seesaw underneath and entitled “At The Playground,” I was playing “Girl on Fire” and singing at the top of my lungs. I was no better at music than I had been before. I wasn’t playing some beautiful, intricate piece filled with grace notes and arpeggiation, belting the E5 with Alicia Keys-level power. I was playing block chords. The difference was I was playing a song I loved. My headspace had shifted so much that when evacuating from a wildfire (a terrible coincidence, considering the song I was playing at the time) a few weeks later, my sheet music was one of the things I took with me. That was improvement! Around the time I started piano and voice lessons, I auditioned for a summer performance of Alice in Wonderland. I was sure I wasn’t going to get a part, but after the director assigned every other role in the show, my name was last to be called. I got the role of Alice Small. It wasn’t the biggest part, but I was 1/3 of the title character and got to sing a duet with Humpty Dumpty, so I couldn’t complain. That week I was unexpectedly bitten by the musical theater bug. After Alice in Wonderland, I went on to take part in other musicals such as Mary Poppins and Amahl and the Night Visitors and knew I’d found what I loved to do. When the pandemic hit, the ability to sing and dance and act with friends was instantly stripped from all of the theater kids around the world. It was one of the hardest thing about the isolation for me. That summer, my mom heard about two Broadway actresses who were teaching online classes since, theaters were closed during the pandemic. Having felt deprived of theater for far too long, I jumped on this incredible, once-in-a-lifetime chance. I went to their website, submitted an audition tape, and got into their class. I was ecstatic and over the next four weeks, I learned more than I ever could have imagined. A musical theater kid probably isn’t the ideal candidate for this scholarship, but that’s okay. So why am I bothering writing this? Because music isn’t what people try to tell you it is. It isn’t messily plunking out “Vegetable Marching Song” while a very particular teacher glares at you. Music is what you want it to be, whether that’s busking on the street corner, selling your songs, performing covers online, or (my own dream) starring in a Broadway musical. Just like no two songs are exactly the same, everyone’s journey differs, but as long as you’re making the music you want to make, that’s what’s important.

I was first introduced to music when I was around two. My grandma was an organist at her church and she taught me piano technique as early as I can remember. When I was in 3rd grade, I began taking regular piano lessons. I didn’t love what I was learning then - I wanted to play songs I liked, not “Mary Had Little Lamb” - but those lessons furthered my understanding of music theory, which has helped me so much in my musical journey. I quit about two years later in order to have some more free time, but when I was 10, I started up again, this time with a new teacher, and an extra instrument: voice. My teacher was absolutely amazing! She helped me fall in love with piano all over again by letting me play songs I actually liked and wanted to learn, and taught me one of my most valuable skills: how to sing and play piano at the same time. I was so excited by this new ability - I could sing and accompany myself? Music almost instantly became one of my favorite things again. Overtime, I became more interested in musical theater. When Hamilton came out, I listened to it obsessively, and had the entire thing memorized before long. I participated in local musical theater productions of Alice in Wonderland, Hamilton, Mary Poppins, and more. I decided I wanted to work on Broadway when I grew up. When the pandemic hit, despite not being able to continue doing shows, I took my extra time as an opportunity to grow in my abilities. I continued piano and voice lessons over Zoom, and in addition to that, I started a YouTube channel where I sang covers of my favorite songs. I took a 10-week musical theater course from two Broadway actresses who helped me gain confidence in my voice and my acting abilities. I’m still aiming for the goal of being on Broadway someday, and hopefully, with a lot of work, I’ll be able to reach it. One of the biggest reasons why I need this scholarship is because one of my goals to ensure financial stability when I’m older is to buy a rental property before I go to college. Being in the musical theater industry doesn’t promise work 24/7. In fact, it’s pretty much a given that you’re going to go a while without work before you book your first audition. Having a rental property will help me make ends meet while I’m trying to get a job, but it’s a pretty big expense, and takes away from money that could be going towards my college education. Winning this scholarship would be one step closer to becoming the person I want to be and would help me breathe a bit easier when it comes to financing my dreams. It’s hard to really explain how I feel when I sing or play piano. Maybe it’s because I get so lost in the music that I can’t really tell. Music can move people in ways that I’ve never seen anything else come close to. It can be calming or energizing. It can have a light-hearted message, or a deep, powerful one. It can make someone dance or send them into a fit of tears. Music changes lives. The most important thing that music has done for me is given me confidence. It’s shown me that I have something to offer to the world. I’m not Taylor Swift or Beethoven, and I highly doubt I’ll ever be, but I’m a musician. I was given the gift of music for a reason and I don’t want to hide it.

Like a soaring bird, I rise above the crowd. The platform I’m standing on lifts me higher, higher, higher, until I feel as if I could touch the ceiling of the theatre if I stood on my tiptoes. I look down at one of my best friends, standing below in a beautiful blue ballgown, looking up at me. I look out at the audience, on the edges of their seats, anticipating this moment. I’ve done this likely hundreds of times before, but every time I’m as touched as the last. I feel empowered up here. I’m not in the real world anymore. I’m flying high above the clouds on a broomstick. I’m the most wanted woman in Oz, but at the moment, I don’t care. I know that I can handle anything anyone throws at me. I open my mouth and begin to sing to the best friend I’ve ever known, but also to the world: “Tell them how I’m defying gravity, I’m flying high defying gravity, and soon I’ll match them in renown. And nobody in all of Oz, no wizard that there is or was, is ever going to bring me down!” This is my dream. I want to be a Broadway actor. I’ve been involved in musical theater for several years, but it wasn’t until I was thirteen that I discovered the musical Wicked. Elphaba, or “The Wicked Witch of the West,” instantly became my dream role. I connected with her - she felt unappreciated. She was honest, sometimes to a fault, but never tried to hurt anyone unless they hurt her first. She was lonely, but didn’t want to admit it, and was immensely grateful when she discovered a true friend in her once grave enemy, Glinda. Whenever I get stage fright, or when I feel like I won’t be able to hit a note, I close my eyes and imagine that I’m playing Elphaba on Broadway. I picture myself atop that platform, high above the stage, singing my heart out, and it never fails to make my confidence soar. I know the insane amount of work that it takes to be a Broadway actor. I know that there will be sacrifices along the way. I may go long periods of time jobless, struggling to pay bills. I may be overworked at times, having to work several jobs just to put food on the table. I know that I’m going to hear the word “no” far too many times to count. But my dream is to someday stand high above a Broadway stage and belt “Defying Gravity” with all of my heart, and that dream will help me to push through.

I can still remember the first time I ever saw The Greatest Showman. I was astounded by the beautiful, elaborate costumes, the intricate choreography, and the intriguing plot, but above all, I instantly fell madly in love with the music. Even just during the first song, I immediately knew that the movie was going to be amazing, and I was more than right. If you’ve never seen The Greatest Showman before (and I highly recommend you do!), it follows the life of 19th-century showman P. T. Barnum. Through the movie, Barnum starts a family, but they don’t have much money. He opens Barnum’s American Museum, showcasing wax figures, but, lacking public interest, he soon opts for live performers or “oddities” including a bearded woman, a little person, Siamese twins, and much more. He struggles with desperately wanting to be accepted by society and striving for perfection, but eventually he learns that he doesn’t need to be loved by the world to feel true happiness. The soundtrack is by far my favorite part of the movie. What I love about the music from The Greatest Showman is the way that the songwriters, Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, knew when to go all in, but also when to hold back. They let emotion speak for itself in the right places without overdoing the musicality, and the way they value simplicity in their music is absolutely beautiful. The lyrics of each song are so carefully thought out and skillfully written, and the melodies work beautifully with the lyrics, containing powerful emotion that touches me every time I hear it. The Greatest Showman will always be my favorite movie. The message is powerful, the actors are talented, and it’s an amazing story, but most of all, the music will forever speak to me.

“A picture is worth a thousand words” To some degree, it’s true; a picture can often show you things that words will never be able to describe. A picture can transport you across the world to Antarctica or Pakistan or Brazil. A picture can show you the great expanse of outer space or the small, intricate veins on the leaf in your backyard. Pictures are detailed, powerful, and beautiful, but there is one important thing that a picture will never be able to do. A single photograph, no matter how beautiful, looks the same to everyone who sees it. Maybe two people can see different meanings in an picture, maybe someone can notice minute details another doesn’t, but the image itself never changes. A picture captures things the way they are, which is. With words, the image created in the mind is different for every person who reads them. Someone might read the description of a castle, but because there is no picture of it, the reader is left to imagine what it might really look like, every hallway, every painting, every flower being shaped in their mind. Even the best author can never describe something thoroughly enough to create the same image for every reader. So, in a way, a word is worth 7.9 billion pictures. I want to be an writer. I want to create with my words. I want to build a world, letter by letter, sentence by sentence, that is different for every person who enters it. Many people create. Sculptors create statues. Dancers create art with their movement. Architects design plans for a building and builders bring it to life. But a writer, with nothing but a pen and paper, can create anything. That is something special, and something that I want to do with my life.