For as long as I can remember, my creativity has been about telling stories. Whether I was writing theme songs for my brother's LEGO games or playing the music from my favorite TV shows, I was always crafting a tale! Stories connect us and inspire us. Sometimes, they even change us. The day I watched Jurassic Park changed me. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but never had I seen it done like that. I leaped from my chair when we saw dinosaurs for the first time, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I had found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio of music (including pieces from two student short films), I applied to Berklee College of Music, where film composers like Howard Shore and Alan Silvestri went, and I was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film and Media Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after. I created this piece using Logic Pro, a Digital Audio Workface (commonly abbreviated as a DAW) and the Spitfire Symphony Orchestra. It's called There Were Legends and is inspired off of Chinese music and folklore.

Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the Coldplay paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers and I still remember these songs as a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4 hours a day and wishing for more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after. But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. Getting this scholarship will give me the chance to learn from the best of the best, stand on the shoulders of giants, and meet musicians like me. Most importantly, it will give my music the opportunity to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the Coldplay paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers and I still remember these songs as a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4 hours a day and wishing for more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after. But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. Getting this scholarship will give me the chance to learn from the best of the best, stand on the shoulders of giants, and meet musicians like me. Most importantly, it will give my music the opportunity to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

First memories of an April piano recital: I was ten, and I wasn’t ready to die. So much was ahead of me–eating Easter candy, playing with my brothers, graduating elementary school. This couldn’t be the end, but it sure felt that way. Heat prickled my cheeks, black dots speckled my vision. Saying I had butterflies in my stomach was an understatement- more like cockroaches. Or maggots. Venomous toads, spewing acid, destroying my organs and my confidence. I squirmed in my dress, waiting for panic to eat me alive. Perhaps I could escape. I longingly gazed towards the library door. I could almost taste the liberation, feel the sunshine against my face: if I got past my mom, I could run to my house! What I’d do from there was a problem for later. I sat taller–was it possible? My mom and I exchanged glances. She smiled. Nope. I wilted in my chair. Maybe if I shrunk enough, the ground would swallow me and save me the embarrassment of playing. Don’t get me wrong, I worked hard for this performance. For once, I hadn’t played to check it off a list– I’d practiced for months on end. I loved the piece and I wanted to play it well. But if I couldn’t play it well, my brain said, my life was over. Anxiety has been with me since I was little. Not so much my enemy, more like a little sibling that’s constantly on my heels. “I just want to help! Let me help!” Like a little sibling, it grew loud and annoying the more I paid attention to it. I had my first panic attack when I was six or seven at the Carlsbad Caverns–that made for some lovely family pictures, let me tell you. There was no logic behind my fear, but Anxiety isn’t a logical being. All I can say is that my brain planned far ahead, and when it saw the gaping mouth of Carlsbad, it screamed danger. As I grew up, so did my fears. It wasn't caves, but being late, awkward silences, and disappointing people that scared me. I was a perfectionist, and the worst thing that could happen was making a mistake. So when my piano teacher pulled out something she considered “more of a challenge”: The Olympic Fanfare and Theme, 1984, I was determined to play it perfectly. I practiced relentlessly, scrutinized every mistake, blew past every standard. My recital song was ready, but so was my anxiety–prepped and loaded with every worst-case scenario possible. Which is why, that day, I heard funeral bells tolling. A grim silence blanketed the room. I trembled with every step, my heart pounding like a broken washing machine. By the time I introduced my performance, It was too late. No way I could run to the door in front of all these people. I lowered myself on the bench and, hands trembling, I began to play. I wish I could tell you that at that moment, all my anxiety disappeared. That the sun shone, smiles brightened every face, and we all held hands and sang kumbaya. That the door opened up and I made my triumphal exit. But that… would be a lie. Instead, I started my song in the wrong octave! I closed my eyes. This had to be how it ended: the adults would groan, the kids would laugh, and the Muses would smash me with a baby grand. What had I been thinking? Imagine my surprise when nothing happened. Even when I messed up, the song kept going. I kept going. I realized that my fingers knew where to go, how to play, what to bring out. My excitement grew when I neared the main section, confidence straightening my spine. I switched octaves with a bang, the theme engraved in my hands. The hours I had slaved away were worth it. I was John Williams, conducting the Olympic Fanfare and Theme, and my passion surpassed my fear. All too soon the song was over. I swung off the piano into a half-bow, and the audience met me with blissful applause. Everyone loved it. The only people who noticed my errors were my teacher (already worried about the next kid) and my mom (who laughed). That performance began a long personal journey. For years, my anxiety controlled my actions, and in prepping for the worst-case scenario, I missed great experiences. Now I am learning, not to ignore my anxiety, but to recognize its place in reality. To prepare for the future while staying present. Instead of dreading calamity, I laugh when it comes, and find that some caves are not as scary as I thought. The takeaway? Sometimes, making mistakes is the best experience, and the worst thing that can happen is doing nothing at all.

There’s a story about Hadyn while he was in residence with Hungary’s Prince Nikolaus Esterházy. The Prince had kept Hadyn and his musicians from their families for far too long, so in protest, he wrote and performed his Symphony No. 45 (later known as the Farewell Symphony). During the Finale, the musicians suddenly stopped and went into a slower section. One by one, the musicians snuffed their candles and left the stage until there were only two violinists left. The story goes that the Prince gave them leave to go the very next day. I think of this whenever I explain why I love music. Hadyn, without a single word, changed a monarch’s mind. How did he do it? Scientifically, that’s hard to answer. The thing about music is that it is, for the most part, invisible. You can’t see music, can’t hold it in your hand and examine it for soft spots. You can’t plug it into an algorithm, Music=bx+2, and get an answer. Without an audience, music is little more than strangely-shaped metalwork, squiggles on a page, and soundwaves in the air. But with a listener, music comes alive. Music touches people, and that’s what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his car radio. How Motown combatted racist attitudes and built a platform for black artists today. How Les Miserables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem from Beijing to Belarus. How a certain song can make an awful day so much better. Music is an art that everyone can enjoy, regardless of age, background, or cultural experience. You don’t have to study theory to love music. You don’t have to play the piano or carry a tune. All you need to do is listen, and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the transitional music from my mom’s news podcasts, the Coldplay songs paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling in the background before my church’s global gatherings. Something I remember vividly is watching movies with my family–back in the days of DVD’s and main menus, when there was music that’d loop in the background before you pressed play. That music would give me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I was writing my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our pretend games were musicals. From the beginning, my music had one purpose–to tell the story. Songs with clever titles like “We Are Mining Miner’s Gold” and “You Will Now Be Hypnotized” . I can’t tell you the exact circumstances of the game or who was playing what character, but years later, my brothers and I still remember all the words to these songs. It’s a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. It happened over time, percolating in my thoughts years before I said it out loud. Maybe it was watching an eagle take flight in my favorite childhood T.V. show, or feeling the music whisk me away on Soarin’ Over California at Disneyland. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. But this I know: one day, I started taking piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 3 or 4 hours a day and wishing there was more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but never had I seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when we saw dinosaurs for the first time, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I had found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio of music (including pieces from two student short films), I applied to Berklee College of Music, where film composers like Howard Shore and Alan Silvestri went, and I was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film and Media Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after. But I’m not in film music for fame or money. I’m not trying to become an idol in the industry. I want to be a film composer because of how deeply music connects with the audience. I want my music to have an impact on the world, to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. I want it to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. I want people to listen to my music and feel it, the same way little Seara felt it while listening to the radio. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move them, one score and story at a time.

There’s a story about Hadyn while he was in residence with Hungary’s Prince Nikolaus Esterházy. The Prince had kept Hadyn and his musicians from their families for far too long, so in protest, he wrote and performed his Symphony No. 45 (later known as the Farewell Symphony). During the Finale, the musicians suddenly stopped and went into a slower section. One by one, the musicians snuffed their candles and left until there were only two violinists left. The Prince gave them leave to go the very next day. I think of this whenever I explain why I love music. Hadyn, without a single word, changed a monarch’s mind. How did he do it? Scientifically, that’s hard to answer. Music is invisible. You can’t hold it in your hand. You can’t plug it into an algorithm, Music=bx+2, and get an answer. Without an audience, music is little more than sound waves. With a listener, music comes alive. Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the Coldplay paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers and I still remember these songs as a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4 hours a day and wishing for more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio, I applied to Berklee College of Music, and was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after . But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. I want my music to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers still remember all the words. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4-5 hours a day. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio, I applied to Berklee College of Music, and was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after. But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. I want my music to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

There’s a story about Hadyn while he was in residence with Hungary’s Prince Nikolaus Esterházy. The Prince had kept Hadyn and his musicians from their families for far too long, so in protest, he wrote and performed his Symphony No. 45 (later known as the Farewell Symphony). During the Finale, the musicians suddenly stopped and went into a slower section. One by one, the musicians snuffed their candles and left until there were only two violinists left. The Prince gave them leave to go the very next day. I think of this whenever I explain why I love music. Hadyn, without a single word, changed a monarch’s mind. How did he do it? Scientifically, that’s hard to answer. Music is invisible. You can’t hold it in your hand. You can’t plug it into an algorithm, Music=bx+2, and get an answer. Without an audience, music is little more than sound waves. With a listener, music comes alive. Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the Coldplay paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers and I still remember these songs as a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4 hours a day and wishing for more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio, I applied to Berklee College of Music, and was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after . But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. I want my music to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

There’s a story about Hadyn while he was in residence with Hungary’s Prince Nikolaus Esterházy. The Prince had kept Hadyn and his musicians from their families for far too long, so in protest, he wrote and performed his Symphony No. 45 (later known as the Farewell Symphony). During the Finale, the musicians suddenly stopped and went into a slower section. One by one, the musicians snuffed their candles and left until there were only two violinists left. The Prince gave them leave to go the very next day. I think of this whenever I explain why I love music. Hadyn, without a single word, changed a monarch’s mind. How did he do it? Scientifically, that’s hard to answer. Music is invisible. You can’t hold it in your hand. You can’t plug it into an algorithm, Music=bx+2, and get an answer. Without an audience, music is little more than sound waves. With a listener, music comes alive. Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the Coldplay paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers and I still remember these songs as a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4 hours a day and wishing for more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio, I applied to Berklee College of Music, and was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after . But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. I want my music to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

There’s a story about Hadyn while he was in residence with Hungary’s Prince Nikolaus Esterházy. The Prince had kept Hadyn and his musicians from their families for far too long, so in protest, he wrote and performed his Symphony No. 45 (later known as the Farewell Symphony). During the Finale, the musicians suddenly stopped and went into a slower section. One by one, the musicians snuffed their candles and left until there were only two violinists left. The Prince gave them leave to go the very next day. I think of this whenever I explain why I love music. Hadyn, without a single word, changed a monarch’s mind. How did he do it? Scientifically, that’s hard to answer. Music is invisible. You can’t hold it in your hand. You can’t plug it into an algorithm, Music=bx+2, and get an answer. Without an audience, music is little more than sound waves. With a listener, music comes alive. Music touches people, and that's what makes it special. How a little girl twirls to her favorite Disney ditty, or a crowd surges to the latest hit, or an old man hums with his radio. How Motown combated racism and Les Misérables’ “Do You Hear the People Sing” became a freedom fighters’ anthem. How a song makes an awful day so much better. Music is an art everyone can enjoy. You don’t have to study theory or play piano to love music: all you need to do is listen and feel. I’ve been listening all my life. I remember the music from my mom’s podcasts, the Coldplay paired with my family’s home videos. I remember the choir swelling before my church’s gatherings. I remember watching movies on DVD, when background music played before the film. That music gave me chills. When I wasn’t listening to music, I wrote my own. My brother’s LEGO battles had jingles, our games were musicals. My music had one purpose–to tell the story. Years later, my brothers and I still remember these songs as a time capsule of the stories we made together. I don’t remember the first time I thought about being a musician. Maybe it was watching an eagle aloft in a T.V. show, or being whisked away on Disneyland's Soarin’ Over California. Maybe it was my John Williams playlist. This I know: one day, I started piano lessons, and the next, I was playing 4 hours a day and wishing for more time. Then came the day that pivoted my career: the day I watched Jurassic Park. All my life I’d used music to tell a story, but I'd never seen it done like this. I leaped from my chair when the dinosaurs appeared, and when the end credits faded in eerie strings, I knew I'd found my calling. I wrote jazz ballads and symphonic suites, piano trios and synth beats. With a bursting portfolio, I applied to Berklee College of Music, and was accepted. Now I’m working towards my degree in Film Scoring, hoping for a Hollywood happily-ever-after . But I’m not in film for fame or money. I want to be a film composer because I want my music to have an impact on the world. I want to tell a story that whisks people off their feet. I want my music to stir emotions and resonate with hearts. Maybe my music doesn’t start a movement, but I want it to move people, one score and story at a time.

My mom tells me that as a kid, I was her little monkey: clambering everything in sight with no regard for my safety or her nerves. She’d find me on the top shelf of the pantry, 8 feet off the floor, eating crackers, or sitting proudly on top of the fridge. There was a massive tree in my backyard that I ascended daily. From its eaves, I could see my whole neighborhood in a different light. Yes, I was set up to be a climber. But as I got older, a problem emerged. I was terrified of heights. Roller coasters filled me with dread. Even looking off a diving board made me dizzy. I remember being at the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, clutching the wall while my siblings ran wild. It wasn’t so much the height itself as it was the what-if’s– What if the railing isn’t safe? What if I fall? What if I become paralyzed? These thoughts spiraled into nausea, and sometimes into panic attacks. It’s hard when fear stops you from doing what you love. So when I got into rock climbing, it was more than a hobby: it was an effort to fight those fears. The first few weeks were difficult. Halfway up the wall, I’d freeze, not able to go any further, and when I did reach the top, I’d refuse to let go. But time passed. Calluses morphed my hands. I often stumbled and occasionally fell, and then realized that falling wasn’t as scary as I’d thought. There wasn’t one day where everything became easier. But eventually I found I was looking for new handholds more than I was looking for a crash site, and that’s when I realized that I loved climbing. I found opportunities to climb everywhere I went, whether I was bouldering the red rocks of Southern Utah or belaying the Yellow Mountains in PuDong, China. One of my favorite memories is climbing in the Little Cottonwood Canyon as the sun set. Much like my tree climbing days, the view was awe-inspiring and life-changing. Falling off a cliff isn’t the only scary thing in this world. I’m going to live in Valencia for a year, with an entirely different language and culture. I’m attending an incredible music school that’s barely in my reach with loans and scholarships. I’m majoring in film composition, a male-dominated field for more than a century. But climbing has helped me realize that I don’t have to give into my anxiety over these things. Facing my fears makes them less daunting! Of course I’ll fall, just like I fell when I first climbed a wall. But in getting back up and trying again, I’ll also reach heights I’d once thought impossible. Who knows–maybe I’ll get an incredible new view of the world on the way.

I fell in love with her when I was eight. Huddled in my nook between bookshelves, I craned my neck to see her. There she was, shimmering brighter than everything around her. I stood on tiptoes to reach, gently pulling the book down and began to read. The usual chaos of the children's section blurred in the background. I was in my own world—her world. It wasn’t her dress, her prince, or even the magic that delighted me. It was her, and it was her message. I was a lonely kid. I remember crouching under a tree at recess, fighting back tears because no one would play with me. I read books during lunch to avoid rejection. I came back to toxic friends and bullies, again and again, because it was better than being alone. Because of that, I always related to Cinderella: the girl who, no matter how hard she tried, was abandoned. But, like Cinderella, I refused to let loneliness define me. Despite her harsh treatment, Cinderella was beautiful because she never stopped showing love. Whether she's feeding her frog friends in Nigeria or helping her stepsisters get ready for festivals in Palestine, she chose to be kind, and so would I. I talked to kids who sat alone. I invited the ones who never got invited. I stood up for my bullies, regardless of our past, because I’d decided to be better. I wasn’t going to be the victim, wasn’t going to be a bitter stepmother or a jealous stepsister. I refused to relinquish my power to decide who I would be. All Cinderella needed was a chance. An escape from the abuses of her tormentors, a gateway to a different world. In her stories, the aid was often magical: fairy godmothers, guiding ghosts, or anthropomorphic animals. My own rescue came in middle school, when a group of girls invited me over to their lunch table. We spent hours discussing Harry Potter, eating goldfish, and writing stories. I still read during lunch, but it wasn’t because I was lonely. It was because I belonged. These girls used a different kind of magic, but the effect was the same: like Cinderella, I shed the oppression that held me back and found another life. I never looked back. Cinderella stories usually end with her living “happily ever after.” In South Africa, a prince falls in love with her, despite the mossy hide she’s cursed to wear, and his love lifts her curse. In Belgium, she reunites with her estranged father. In India, she escapes imprisonment and reclaims her title as queen. And the orphan girl, who waited invisibly in the ashes, rises like a phoenix. I did the same. I found my place, and though my bullies still went to school with me, they held no sway over my life or happiness. I was free. We gravitate towards stories like Cinderella because we are Cinderella. We have all felt abandoned, alone, and ostracized. We yearn for help, and we hope for happy endings. For me, this yearning led to a lifelong obsession with Cinderella stories: reading century-old manuscripts, studying essays published only in French, and meeting with PhD literary specialists to advise on master students’ theses. I’m working with an editor on a manuscript I’ve written about Cinderella tales, and my work has been accepted by an agent at BookStop Literary. Though my obsession with Cinderella stories began as an escape from my circumstances, I’ve learned to forge my own destiny—shaping a magical journey through kindness, determination, and a sprinkling of good fortune along the way.

It started with a sign on our street corner: “Hot Cocoa Stand in 3 Days!” Hand-painted, with peel-off numbers, it attracted immediate attention. My brothers and I changed the countdown each day, growing passerbys’ anticipation for the launch of our business. When our moment arrived, we smiled and waved until our mouths and arms ached, noses pink in the cold. Two hours, 40 cups of hot chocolate, and 80 cookies later, we had made $100. As long as I can remember, I’ve had a verve for entrepreneurial ventures. I saw my neighbors’ overgrown yards and convinced them to let me pick weeds for money. I proffered myself as a babysitter to every family I met. When demand exceeded quantity at my class Gatorade stand, I held an auction for the highest bidder. As I got older, my ideas got bigger. The summer I turned 14, I created a curriculum for several week-long science and arts summer camps. I made handouts, knocked doors, petitioned neighbors and friends. When more than 30 kids enrolled, I broke the kids into age groups and hired my brothers to manage teams. We studied alkalinity with cabbage water, sublimation with dry ice, and polymers with diaper fill. The next summer I established myself as a reading tutor. I explored the University Reading Center module, came up with dozens of hands-on activities for emerging readers, and recruited a group of regular students. A year later, it was time to put my piano skills to good use. I put out a call on our neighborhood Facebook page, and in a few weeks had two dozen students. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would finally sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he stood up in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, and played without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew all the work I’d done was worth it. The most poignant thing I’ve learned through entrepreneurship is that business isn’t simply a money-and-numbers mind game. It touches lives. It brings joy to passersby, it beautifies neighborhoods, and gives parents a break. It makes kids excited about science and helps grade schoolers develop a love of reading. It pushes the insecure out of the shadows and into the spotlight. And, most importantly, it helped me develop grit, determination, and a love of the community around me.

Many people misinterpret the idea that Hufflepuff ‘taking the rest’ means it is a lesser house. On the contrary, Hufflepuff’s acceptance of everyone is what makes it so important to Hogwarts. Even in the Wizarding World, there are outsiders. Newt Scamander, who didn’t understand the social rules everyone else understood. Nymphadora Tonks, who couldn’t sit still and be quiet like her teachers expected. Hannah Abbott, who always felt stupid no matter how hard she tried in Herbology or Potions. I, too, have been an outsider. I was a lonely kid. I remember crouching under a tree at recess, fighting back tears because no one would play with me. I would read books during lunch to avoid the mortification of sitting alone. I came back to toxic friends and bullies, again and again and again, because it was better than being alone. The isolation was suffocating. During those years, I constantly felt like I was not enough. I wasn’t quick enough for the smart kids, not extroverted enough for the popular kids, not aware enough for the cool kids. It was as if friendship was a hurdle, like belonging was a trial that only the lucky survive. In those moments, what I needed was a Hufflepuff. I needed to feel like I deserved happiness, not because I possessed all the right qualities, but because I was human. “I’ll take you,” Hufflepuff says, “Regardless of your bloodline or your gifts. I’ll take you when no one else will.” Helga’s words mirror a poem by Irving Berlin, carved underneath the Statue of Liberty: “Give me your tired, your poor Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free The wretched refuse of your teeming shore Send these the homeless tempest-tost to me I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” Because the Hufflepuff House is made of its misfits, Hufflepuffs always reach out to the lonely and stand up for the downtrodden. Newt Scamander dedicated his life to protecting animals that others deemed monsters. Tonks never abandoned her husband Lupin, even through the outside dangers and inner turmoil of Lupin’s life. After Hannah’s mother died, she still returned to Hogwarts and fought for the school’s freedom. Hufflepuffs never stop showing love. They make the conscious choice to be kind, and so would I. I talked to kids who sat alone. I invited the ones who never got invited. I stood up for my bullies, regardless of our past, because I’d decided to be better. I refused to relinquish my power to decide who I would be. Hogwarts is a place where everyone deserves to feel welcome. For me, I feel the most welcome with the Hufflepuffs: the house that doesn’t strut its stuff, but always steps up to help. The house that welcomes the rabble and the outcast. That is where I belong, and that is who I want to be.

I was a lonely kid. I remember crouching under a tree at recess, fighting back tears because no one would play with me. I would read books during lunch to avoid the mortification of sitting alone. I came back to toxic friends and bullies, again and again, because it was better than being alone. The isolation was suffocating. Because of that, I always related to Cinderella: to the girl who, no matter how hard she tried, was rejected by those who should have been her friends. I was inspired by Cinderella’s kindness, even to those who were cruel. Despite her harsh treatment, Cinderella was beautiful because she never stopped showing love. She made the conscious choice to be kind, and so would I. I talked to kids who sat alone. I invited the ones who never got invited. I stood up for my bullies, regardless of our past, because I’d decided to be better. I wasn’t going to be the victim, wasn’t going to be a bitter stepmother or a jealous stepsister. I refused to relinquish my power to decide who I would be. All Cinderella needed was a chance. An escape from her tormentors, someone to see her for who she really was: not a servant, but a princess, perhaps even a queen. In her story, the aid was magical: a fairy godmother and talking animals. My own rescue came in middle school: a group of girls invited me to their lunch table. I was nervous, but their animated conversation put me at ease. They knew I read voraciously, and they convinced me to join Battle-of-the-Books. We spent hours with each other–debating whether Gandalf or Dumbledore was stronger, taping candy canes to our heads, and writing (terrible) songs about unicorns. I still read during lunch, but not because I was afraid of sitting alone. It was because I belonged. These girls used a different kind of magic, but the effect was the same: like Cinderella, I shed the oppression that held me back and ventured into another life. Cinderella ends with her living “happily ever after.” I did the same. I found my place, and though my bullies still went to school with me, they held no sway over my life or my happiness. The bravest thing I ever did was move on. I learned to forge my own destiny—shaping a magical journey through kindness, determination, and a sprinkling of good fortune along the way.

She is forged by adversity, refined by resilience, and polished by passion.

I love stories. I thrive in the world of “once upon a time,” in a hole in the ground, in galaxies far, far away. Stories connect us, inspire us, refine us. More than anything, I want my music to tell a story, one that stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I decided to be a film composer during the helicopter scene of Jurassic Park. Since that moment, I have listened to the scores of every movie I can get my hands on: Vertigo. Pride and Prejudice. Soul. But, as I listened, I noticed something. All these successful composers were middle-aged Caucasian men. Uneasy, I looked up how many female composers had won an Oscar for Best Original Score… One. I was aghast. The Oscars have existed for almost a hundred years, yet it wasn’t until 2019 that Hildur Guðnadóttir became the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Original Score. Only two other women before her had won Academy Awards for film scores, in other categories. And only 10 women total had been nominated in the film scoring category. Instead of feeling discouraged, I decided to work harder. I composed and performed a series of piano pieces based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, including “Constance Contraire,” “Sticky Washington,” “Mr. Benedict’s Library,” “Number 2,” and “Kate Wetherall.” I wrote music for short films, my high school's orchestra, my piano students, and myself. Inspired by my Chinese language learning, I spent time focusing on Chinese music with my composition professor. I composed a series of piano solos inspired by Chinese folklore, including “Hou Yi,” “Sun Wu Kong,” “Jade Emperor,” and “Chang’ E.” I also composed a piano piece based on the five-tone scale of Chinese music entitled, “Bamboo.” To improve my orchestration skills, I learned the flute, trumpet, violin, and organ. I had no reason to hold back. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

If you had asked 8-year-old-me to describe herself 10 years in the future, “athletic” wouldn’t have even come to mind. Sure, I was an active little kid. I was the queen of floor-is-lava on the playground. I could climb a tree faster than anyone I knew. I’d gotten my pointe shoes after 6 years of ballet, and biked to and from my studio every rehearsal. I hiked, canoed, and cartwheeled my way through my childhood. But in my mind, I wasn’t an athlete. Maybe because I was small, and the football boys towered over me each time I tried to play. Maybe because I didn’t like the noise of crowded gyms and stadiums. Maybe because the sports I loved weren’t really considered sports. Whatever the reason, I didn’t see myself as a sporty girl. I was adventurous and outdoorsy, but I wasn’t athletic, and that was fine with me. That all changed the day one of my friends decided to run a half marathon. At that moment, I knew I had a choice: I could stay in my comfort zone, maintaining my private active life. Or I could try something completely new. I went for the latter, and my training began soon after. Though it was late March/early April, we had a late winter, and I found myself running in two or three feet of snow. One day it was so cold the sweat in my hair froze! Those first weeks were very challenging, and I felt like giving up. But I kept going, and slowly I felt a change. For the first time ever, I ran 18 or 19 miles in a week without feeling discouraged or out of breath. I dabbled in yoga and pilates, maintaining my mental and physical health. I re-discovered my passion for climbing as I started bouldering, my tiny arms reaching to heights I’d previously thought impossible. The day of the half-marathon, however, my nerves returned. I was the only girl in a group of guys who’d decided to run, and they towered over me both in height and confidence. Could I really hold my own? I wondered as we drove up the canyon. Then I started to run, and all of that went away. The weeks I’d spent training and the years I’d spent adventuring kicked in. As I ran down the mountain, snow fading into slush and then into vegetation, I realized how ready I really was. The boys I’d come with, who weren’t as prepared despite their physical stature, struggled on, and I had to slow down for them! As we crossed the finish line, my mind raced onward. Something finally clicked for me, something I’d wondered about for a long time that finally made sense. Maybe I was smaller than the football players I knew. But this gave me an advantage as I played ultimate frisbee, badminton, and capture-the-flag. Sure, I didn’t have an arena cheering me on. But I cheered myself on as I went the extra mile on my runs. Perhaps the sports I loved weren’t the uniform sports that people watched and loved. But practicing pirouettes and leaping for holds got my heart racing just as much as soccer or basketball ever could. I wasn’t the first baseman or starting setter, but I was still a high school athlete. What excites me the most about college is getting a chance to follow my own path and do things my own way. It won't be easy, but as I prioritize my passions and push forward through my trials, I'm determined to achieve my dreams.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I decided to start my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. I wrote arrangements of student’s favorite songs as a motivation to practice. I had a gumball machine so, if students passed off their songs, they could cash in with quarters. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I decided to start my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. I wrote arrangements of student’s favorite songs as a motivation to practice. I had a gumball machine so, if students passed off their songs, they could cash in with quarters. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

I was a lonely kid. I remember crouching under a tree at recess, fighting back tears because no one would play with me. I would read books during lunch to avoid the mortification of sitting alone. I came back to toxic friends and bullies, again and again, because it was better than being alone. The isolation was suffocating. Because of that, I always related to Cinderella: to the girl who, no matter how hard she tried, was rejected by those who should have been her friends. I was inspired by Cinderella’s kindness, even to those who were cruel. Despite her harsh treatment, Cinderella was beautiful because she never stopped showing love. She made the conscious choice to be kind, and so would I. I talked to kids who sat alone. I invited the ones who never got invited. I stood up for my bullies, regardless of our past, because I’d decided to be better. I wasn’t going to be the victim, wasn’t going to be a bitter stepmother or a jealous stepsister. I refused to relinquish my power to decide who I would be. All Cinderella needed was a chance. An escape from her tormentors, someone to see her for who she really was: not a servant, but a princess, perhaps even a queen. In her story, the aid was magical: a fairy godmother and talking animals. My own rescue came in middle school: a group of girls invited me to their lunch table. I was nervous, but their animated conversation put me at ease. They knew I read voraciously, and they convinced me to join Battle-of-the-Books. We spent hours with each other–debating whether Gandalf or Dumbledore was stronger, taping candy canes to our heads, writing (terrible) songs about unicorns. I still read during lunch, but not because I was afraid of sitting alone. It was because I belonged. These girls used a different kind of magic, but the effect was the same: like Cinderella, I shed the oppression that held me back and ventured into another life. Cinderella ends with her living “happily ever after.” I did the same. I found my place, and though my bullies still went to school with me, they held no sway over my life or my happiness. I learned to forge my own destiny—shaping a magical journey through kindness, determination, and a sprinkling of good fortune along the way.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I decided to start my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. I wrote arrangements of student’s favorite songs as a motivation to practice. I had a gumball machine so, if students passed off their songs, they could cash in with quarters. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

If you had asked 8-year-old-me to describe herself 10 years in the future, “athletic” wouldn’t have even come to mind. Sure, I was an active little kid. I was the queen of floor-is-lava on the playground. I could climb a tree faster than anyone I knew. I’d gotten my pointe shoes after 6 years of ballet, and biked to and from my studio every rehearsal. I hiked, canoed, and cartwheeled my way through my childhood. But in my mind, I wasn’t an athlete. Maybe because I was small, and the football boys towered over me each time I tried to play. Maybe because I didn’t like the noise of crowded gyms and stadiums. Maybe because the sports I loved weren’t really considered sports. Whatever the reason, I didn’t see myself as a sporty girl. I was adventurous and outdoorsy, but I wasn’t athletic, and that was fine with me. That all changed the day one of my friends decided to run a half marathon. At that moment, I knew I had a choice: I could stay in my comfort zone, maintaining my private active life. Or I could try something completely new. I went for the latter, and my training began soon after. Though it was late March/early April, we had a late winter, and I found myself running in two or three feet of snow. One day it was so cold the sweat in my hair froze! Those first weeks were very challenging, and I felt like giving up. But I kept going, and slowly I felt a change. For the first time ever, I ran 18 or 19 miles in a week without feeling discouraged or out of breath. I dabbled in yoga and pilates, maintaining my mental and physical health. I re-discovered my passion for climbing as I started bouldering, my tiny arms reaching to heights I’d previously thought impossible. The day of the half-marathon, however, my nerves returned. I was the only girl in a group of guys who’d decided to run, and they towered over me both in height and confidence. Could I really hold my own? I wondered as we drove up the canyon. Then I started to run, and all of that went away. The weeks I’d spent training and the years I’d spent adventuring kicked in. As I ran down the mountain, snow fading into slush and then into vegetation, I realized how ready I really was. The boys I’d come with, who weren’t as prepared despite their physical stature, struggled on, and I had to slow down for them! As we crossed the finish line, my mind raced onward. Something finally clicked for me, something I’d wondered about for a long time that finally made sense. Maybe I was smaller than the football players I knew. But this gave me an advantage as I played ultimate frisbee, badminton, and capture the flag. Sure, I didn’t have an arena cheering me on. But I cheered myself on as I went the extra mile on my runs. Perhaps the sports I loved weren’t the uniform sports that people watched and loved. But practicing pirouettes and leaping for holds got my heart racing just as much as soccer or basketball ever could. I wasn’t the first baseman or starting setter, but I was still a high school athlete. And choosing to change my health habits, even though it was hard, has improved more than my physique. It's improved my confidence. I thought it was the race I was working for, but the journey has been the real prize.

There are many things I remember about memory. I remember forgetting the periodic table during the elements quiz I took in chemistry. I remember seeing my mom after a trip to Italy and wondering if I knew what his voice sounded like. I remember my brother, who after a traumatic brain injury recited the information he could remember on loop, desperate to find the missing information. At the time, all of these moments were scary and confusing. But all of these moments had an end. Once the test was over, or once I was in my mom's embrace, or once my brother recovered. But there are memory blips that aren't temporary, that don't have an "Aha!" ending. My great-grandparents, before they died, struggled with memory loss. Some people use the word "sundowning": the gradual fading of identity until the person disappears below the horizon. Watching my great-grandpa, frustrated and confused, stuck in his house, was heartbreaking. And knowing that one day, my parents or my siblings or me could have memory loss that we couldn't recover, scares me. But instead of running away from my fear, I decided to face it. The patrons at Alta View Care Center couldn’t remember my name, though I came every week. Some barely remembered their own names. But the minute I played the opening strains of Elvis Presley or Dean Martin, their faces lit up. One mumbling woman belted every word of “Hotel California” at the top of her lungs. A Carl Fredricksen duplicate requested the Moonlight Sonata each week, his wary wrinkles transforming into laugh lines as he listened. When I played “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” as an encore, recognition swept across the normally blank face of an elderly gentleman, and he reached for his wife’s hand as alligator tears rolled down her cheeks. I wasn’t just performing–I was carefully curating a playlist to spark memories. For one magical hour, my music released them from their mental cages. They remembered, and their memories gave my music meaning. There's a Pixar movie called Coco, about a boy who connects music with his family. There's a scene where the boy plays the guitar for his great-grandma, Mama Coco, and together they sing her favorite childhood song. "...know that I'm with you the only way that I can me," the song says. Despite the finality of this memory loss, I am determined that that won't be the end of my story. With music, I have the power to connect with people the best way I can while they are living. And when they're gone, I know I will continue to remember the impact they had on me.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I decided to start my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. I wrote arrangements of student’s favorite songs as a motivation to practice. I had a gumball machine so, if students passed off their songs, they could cash in with quarters. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come. The Grafitti Arts Scholarship will give me a chance to rub shoulders with the best of the best. It will open doors to musical opportunities and musical storytelling. It will lead me to people like me, and together, we can forge our happily-ever-afters.

The patrons at Alta View Care Center couldn’t remember my name, though I came every week. Some barely remembered their own names. But the minute I played the opening strains of Elvis Presley or Dean Martin, their faces lit up. One mumbling woman belted every word to “Hotel California” at the top of her lungs. A Carl Fredricksen duplicate requested the Moonlight Sonata each week, his wary wrinkles transforming into laugh lines as he listened. When I played “Let Me Call You Sweetheart” as an encore, recognition swept across the normally blank face of an elderly gentleman, and he reached for his wife’s hand as alligator tears rolled down her cheeks. I wasn’t just performing–I was carefully curating a playlist to spark memories. For one magical hour, my music released them from their mental cages. They remembered, and their memories gave my music meaning. As a piano teacher, I hosted monthly mini-recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. These experiences testified to me the power music has on the world. Whether's a little girl twirling to a Disney ballad, or a crowd swelling to a popular song at a school dance, or an old man humming along to a childhood show tune, we are all impacted by the power of good music. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

If you had asked 8-year-old-me to describe herself 10 years in the future, “athletic” wouldn’t have even come to mind. Sure, I was an active kid. I was the queen of floor-is-lava. I could climb a tree faster than anyone I knew. I’d gotten my pointe shoes after 6 years of ballet, and biked to and from my studio every rehearsal. I hiked, canoed, and cartwheeled my way through my childhood. But in my mind, I wasn’t an athlete. Maybe because I was small, and the football boys towered over me each time I tried to play. Maybe because I didn’t like the noise of crowded gyms and stadiums. Maybe because the sports I loved weren’t considered sports. Whatever the reason, I didn’t see myself as a sporty girl. I was adventurous and outdoorsy, but I wasn’t athletic, and that was fine with me. That all changed the day one of my friends decided to run a half marathon. At that moment, I knew I had a choice: I could stay in my comfort zone, maintaining my private active life. Or I could try something completely new. I went for the latter, and my training began soon after. Though it was late March/early April, we had a late winter, and I found myself running in two or three feet of snow. One day it was so cold the sweat in my hair froze! Those first weeks were very challenging, and I felt like giving up. But I kept going, and slowly I felt a change. For the first time ever, I ran 18 or 19 miles in a week without feeling discouraged or out of breath. I dabbled in yoga and pilates, maintaining my mental and physical health. I re-discovered my passion for climbing as I started bouldering, my tiny arms reaching to heights I’d previously thought impossible. The day of the half-marathon, however, my nerves returned. I was the only girl in a group of guys who’d decided to run, and they towered over me both in height and confidence. Could I really hold my own? Then I started to run, and all of that went away. The weeks I’d spent training and the years I’d spent adventuring kicked in. The boys I’d come with, who weren’t as prepared despite their physical stature, struggled on, and I had to slow down for them! As we crossed the finish line, my mind raced onward. Maybe I was smaller than the football players I knew. But this gave me an advantage as I played ultimate frisbee, badminton, and capture-the-flag. Sure, I didn’t have an arena cheering me on. But I cheered myself on as I went the extra mile on my runs. Perhaps the sports I loved weren’t the uniform sports that people watched and loved. But practicing pirouettes and leaping for holds got my heart racing just as much as soccer or basketball ever could. I wasn’t the first baseman or starting setter, but I was still a high school athlete. This principle applies to every aspect of my life. Whether in my family, my education, or my career, I don’t always fit the physical or mental stereotypes that exist. I’m planning on going into film composition, a male-dominated field, and not songwriting, the largest music industry for women. Running this half-marathon made me realize that I don’t have to fit the norm. By creating a plan, recognizing my accomplishments, and having grit, I can believe and achieve my goals, one song and one step at a time.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I decided to start my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. I wrote arrangements of student’s favorite songs as a motivation to practice. I had a gumball machine so, if students passed off their songs, they could cash in with quarters. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

My name is Seara Ricks, and I always hated math. Other subjects came easily–I spoke charismatically, wrote effortlessly, and experimented endlessly. I read literary classics, memorized iconic poems every week for an entire summer, researched the genesis of Cinderella folktales, and mimicked Bartok’s composition techniques. I was told I was a ‘smart kid’, and I would’ve felt like a ‘smart kid’, had it not been for math. I was clever, but it took longer for math to click in my head. While other kids glided through the world of multiplication and long division, I stumbled through equations. The numbers others easily separated and analyzed left my head spinning. In 5th grade, I took math tutoring, but instead of expanding my comprehension, it shook my confidence. I got the highest scores in class, but I didn’t feel like I understood. I had imposter syndrome, and I resented math for it. For years, I maintained the status quo. I took honors math classes, did the required work, but avoided asking questions for fear of looking stupid. I still didn’t really understand. Then, one day, something clicked. I noticed that, in Physics, the equations we used to find terminal velocity and momentum were similar to the algebraic formulas I’d learned before. As I played the piano, I realized that intervals in musical chords followed the golden ratio–that the most pleasing chords came from mathematical concepts. Even when I went running, I could see patterns playing out on pinecones, clouds, and mountains. I suddenly saw math as more than a collegiate requirement–it was ubiquitous in all aspects of life, and it actually made sense! I shook the fear of failure that held me back. I talked to my teachers about my struggles and worked through my mistakes until I understood concepts. My path may have been unconventional and slow, but I refused to give up. I calculated the trajectory of rockets and compared my predictions with the results of the launch. I composed musical pieces using the mathematical formulas for chords, instead of improvising, thereby expanding my musical techniques. Every time I stepped outside, I marveled at the fractals and Fibonacci sequences I saw. Most importantly, I found out that I did love math, and I wanted to use it in my future. I loved how applicable it was, how beautiful it was. I stopped shooting for a grade and finally shot for the moon.

Harriet Tubman and I are the same height, and that’s enough for me to like her. At 5 '2'’, she’d be one of the few who can meet my gaze. But even though we’re the same height, her determination, courage, and brilliance would tower over me. I’d be awestruck. Pictures of Harriet Tubman show her careworn face, her stern brow, her intense eyes. But I wonder if, in real life, those eyes twinkle. If that brow relaxes into laugh lines. If she chuckles, deep and warm, if she talks with her hands, if she likes to hum. I imagine her voice would be strong and beautiful: the voice of one that proclaimed justice and sang secret strains of freedom. And I imagine that, when she’s passionate, her face shows that nothing can stop her. I’d ask her if she was ever afraid. If she ever thought about turning around, and what kept her going when she didn’t. I’d ask her how she felt the night of the Combahee Ferry Raid, when she helped free nearly 700 slaves in one night. And I’d ask her about her dreams, what she hoped for herself and the world, what she’d be doing if she lived now. A woman like Harriet Tubman is bound to have questions, too–hard questions about injustice and progress. I’d answer them the best way I could, feeling increasingly determined to make the world better, like she did. It would be amazing to talk to the abductor, the general, the suffragette. But it would be just as incredible to talk to the woman who brewed root beer, who knew stars and crossed rivers, who devoutly believed in God. While I’d love to ask about the numbers and networks of the Underground Railroad, I’m more curious about the woman behind the legend.

In the song Eleanor Rigby, there's a part that says "All the lonely people, where do they all come from? All the lonely people, where do they all belong?" For a long time, I didn't have the answer to that question. I was a lonely kid who never quite felt like she belonged anywhere. But as time has passed, I've found a solution to my problem, through my pain. I have decided that with me, no one was ever going to feel alone. At the beginning of high school, I had a friend group that I’d been a part of since middle school. We’d all known each other for a long time, and I’d gotten really comfortable with them. But as my sophomore year progressed, my friends and I started going our separate ways. I still sat with them at lunch, still came to all of their activities, but we just didn’t have much to talk about. And I was so lonely. I prayed every day that I could meet new people and make new friends, but I just didn’t know how. I started to wonder if there was anyone out there at all, and if I was doomed to feel out of place until I left for college. Then, one day at the beginning of my Junior year, this kid asked me to a school dance. I connected with some of his friends and decided to start sitting with them at lunch. At first, it was mostly five guys and me, and it felt a little weird. But, I invited a girl I’d known in elementary school, who’d also had some friend trouble, to sit with us. After I took him to a dance, a guy I knew from physics joined in. I brought person after person into my friend circle, from people sitting by themselves in the math hallway during lunch, to popular theatre kids who were so sick of the drama in their friend circles. And pretty soon, our group had tripled in size. The best part has been seeing people transform: girls who'd never been asked to a school dance, going to prom and asking people to every dance afterward. Boys who struggled with their self-worth, smiling and relaxing with people who loved them for who they were. We had paradise, but it hadn't come easily: we had to build it up for ourselves. My high school experience was worth it just to watch this friend group grow and develop. To watch all the lonely people come together and lift each other up. I've never once regretted my decision to reach out and do the selfless thing. And I hope the younger me would be proud of who I've become: someone who helps people feel like they belong.

I love stories. I thrive in “once upon a time”, in a hole in the ground, in galaxies far, far away. Stories connect, inspire, and refine us. More than anything, I want my music to tell a story, one that stirs emotions and moves hearts. I've always loved watching movies, but more than watching, I loved listening to the music accompanying them. I decided to be a film composer during the helicopter scene of Jurassic Park. Since that moment, I have listened to scores from Black Panther to Harry Potter to Pride and Prejudice. But, as I listened, I grew uneasy. All these composers were middle-aged Caucasian men. So I looked up how many female composers had won an Oscar for Best Original Score… One. I was aghast. The Oscars have existed for almost a hundred years, yet it wasn’t until 2019 that Hildur Guðnadóttir became the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Original Score. Only two women before her had won any Academy Awards for film scores. And only 10 women total had been nominated in the film scoring category. Instead of feeling discouraged, I worked even harder. I wrote pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I studied composition with a professor at the University of Utah. To improve my orchestration, I learned the flute, trumpet, violin, and organ. I had no reason to hold back. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. I want to be the voice in film composition that I didn't have. I want girls to look at my work and see themselves inside of it. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes, and the hopes of so many others, a voice. It will give my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use its storytelling influence to change many others in the years to come.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I started my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. Soon, we were doing monthly recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it any better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

I was a lonely kid. I remember crouching under a tree at recess, fighting back tears because no one would play with me. I would read books during lunch to avoid the mortification of sitting alone. I came back to toxic friends and bullies, again and again, because it was better than being alone. The isolation was suffocating. Because of that, I always related to Cinderella: to the girl who, no matter how hard she tried, was rejected by those who should have been her friends. I found myself inspired by Cinderella’s kindness, even to those who were cruel. Despite her harsh treatment, Cinderella was beautiful because she never stopped showing love. She made the conscious choice to be kind, and so would I. I talked to the kids who sat alone. I invited the ones who never got invited. I stood up for my bullies, regardless of our past, because I’d decided to be better. I wasn’t going to be the victim, wasn’t going to be a bitter stepmother or a jealous stepsister. I refused to relinquish my power to decide who I would be. All Cinderella needed was a chance. An escape from her tormentors, someone to see her for who she really was: not a servant, but a princess, perhaps even a queen. In her story, the aid was magical: a fairy godmother and talking animals. My own rescue came in middle school. A group of girls invited me to their lunch table. I was nervous, but their animated conversation put me at ease. They knew I read voraciously, and they convinced me to join their Battle-of-the-Books team. We spent hours with each other–debating whether Gandalf or Dumbledore was stronger, taping candy canes to our heads, and writing (terrible) songs about unicorns. I still read during lunch, but not because I was afraid of sitting alone. It was because I belonged. These girls used a different kind of magic, but the effect was the same: like Cinderella, I shed the oppression that held me back and ventured into another life. Cinderella ends with her living “happily ever after.” I did the same. I found my place, and though my bullies still went to school with me, they held no sway over my life or my happiness. I learned to forge my own destiny—shaping a magical journey through kindness, determination, and a sprinkling of good fortune along the way.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. I didn’t want to keep my love of piano to myself, so I decided to start my own business teaching piano lessons. I did everything I could to get students– making handouts, knocking doors, petitioning neighbors and friends. After a call on my neighborhood Facebook page, I amassed more than 30 students, ranging from five to thirty-five. I wrote arrangements of students’ favorite songs as a motivation to practice. I had a gumball machine so, if students passed off their songs, they could cash in with quarters. Soon, we were doing monthly mini-recitals to help students combat stage fright. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

I love stories. I thrive in the world of “once upon a time,” in a hole in the ground, in galaxies far, far away. Stories connect us, inspire us, refine us. More than anything, I want my music to tell a story, one that stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I decided to be a film composer during the helicopter scene of Jurassic Park. Since that moment, I have listened to the scores of every movie I can get my hands on: Vertigo. Pride and Prejudice. Soul. But, as I listened, I noticed something. All these successful composers were middle-aged Caucasian men. Uneasy, I looked up how many female composers had won an Oscar for Best Original Score… One. I was aghast. The Oscars have existed for almost a hundred years, yet it wasn’t until 2019 that Hildur Guðnadóttir became the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Original Score. Only two other women before her had won Academy Awards for film scores, in other categories. And only 10 women total had been nominated in the film scoring category. Instead of feeling discouraged, I decided to work harder. I composed and performed a series of piano pieces based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, including “Constance Contraire,” “Sticky Washington,” “Mr. Benedict’s Library,” “Number 2,” and “Kate Wetherall.” I wrote music for short films, my high school's orchestra, my piano students, and myself. Inspired by my Chinese language learning, I spent time focusing on Chinese music with my composition professor. I composed a series of piano solos inspired by Chinese folklore, including “Hou Yi,” “Sun Wu Kong,” “Jade Emperor,” and “Chang’ E.” I also composed a piano piece based on the five-tone scale of Chinese music entitled, “Bamboo.” To improve my orchestration skills, I learned the flute, trumpet, violin, and organ. I had no reason to hold back. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life.. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. All along, I was having small experiences on the side that reaffirmed the power of music. I was able to start my own business teaching piano lessons, eventually amassing more than 30 students. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

It started with a sign on our street corner: “Hot Cocoa Stand in 3 Days!” Hand-painted, with peel-off numbers, it attracted immediate attention. My brothers and I changed the countdown each day, growing passerbys’ anticipation for the launch of our business. When our moment arrived, we smiled and waved until our mouths and arms ached, noses pink in the cold. Two hours, 40 cups of hot chocolate, and 80 cookies later, we had made $100. As long as I can remember, I’ve had a verve for entrepreneurial ventures. I saw my neighbors’ overgrown yards and convinced them to let me pick weeds for money. I proffered myself as a babysitter to every family I met. When demand exceeded quantity at my class Gatorade stand, I held an auction for the highest bidder. As I got older, my ideas got bigger. The summer I turned 14, I created a curriculum for several week-long science and arts summer camps. I made handouts, knocked doors, petitioned neighbors and friends. When more than 30 kids enrolled, I broke the kids into age groups and hired my brothers to manage teams. We studied alkalinity with cabbage water, sublimation with dry ice, and polymers with diaper fill. The next summer I established myself as a reading tutor. I explored the University Reading Center module, came up with dozens of hands-on activities for emerging readers, and recruited a group of regular students. A year later, it was time to put my piano skills to good use. I put out a call on our neighborhood Facebook page, and in a few weeks had two dozen students. Soon, we were doing monthly mini recitals. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would finally sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he stood up in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, and played without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew all the work I’d done was worth it. The most poignant thing I’ve learned through entrepreneurship is that business isn’t simply a money-and-numbers mind game. It touches lives. It brings joy to passersby, it beautifies neighborhoods, and gives parents a break. It makes kids excited about science and helps grade schoolers develop a love of reading. It pushes the insecure out of the shadows and into the spotlight. And, most importantly, it helped me develop grit, determination, and a love of the community around me.

In fifth grade, I wore pink, played dress-up, and adored princesses. In short, I was a ‘girly-girl’, through and through. My peers occasionally snubbed such behavior, dubbing it childish and extravagant. It baffled me. What was wrong with being girly? Simultaneously, equal rights permeated my childhood. I believed women should experiment, represent, and protest. But, I had questions about my identity as a ‘girly-girl’ and a feminist that remained unanswered, and it manifested itself especially in the stories I loved. I am an avid scholar of Cinderella folklore. I am fascinated with its travels on the Silk Road and Spice Roads and its evolution through culture and history. Many people criticize Cinderella for being too passive. Her stories, from South Africa to Switzerland, proved otherwise. Still, the criticism shook me. If Cinderella was considered sexist because she was gentle and sweet, then what was I? Too often people assume that to be feminist, one must be loud, strong, and masculine. In doing so, some snub traditionally feminine roles and behaviors. For being kind and considerate, Cinderella is dismissed as a doormat and a dreamer. For loving princesses, little girls are labeled naive. And so we degrade feminism into petty arguments about what’s acceptable and what’s not. But I refused to see it that way. Feminism is believing all women can pursue whatever their dreams are, masculine or feminine, at home or in the workplace. So I got to work. I read 100-year-old manuscripts in my local university Special Collections, using Interlibrary Loan to research books from faraway colleges. I studied manuscripts published only in French and met with PhD literary specialists to advise on master students’ theses. I’ve given speeches, composed music, and, of course, written my own versions of the story. I’m working with an editor on a manuscript I’ve written about Cinderella tales, and my work has been accepted by an agent at BookStop Literary. I am proud of the work I have done because it has shown me who I am, and what matters most to me. I have found that I value being kind. I want to be the one who reaches out to other people and protects those who cannot protect themselves. Part of that kindness is standing up for myself and the values I believe in. And I believe that refining and redefining feminism will do that for me. In college, I will continue my research on Cinderella and feminism, and collaborate with others who have similar passions. I will prove that one can believe in happy endings, and still work for them. Most importantly, I will show that we must embrace femininity while we challenge masculinity. Only then can we rise from the ashes to fight the stepmothers and cynics who have their feet on our necks.

It started with a sign on our street corner: “Hot Cocoa Stand in 3 Days!” Hand-painted, with peel-off numbers, it attracted immediate attention. My brothers and I changed the countdown each day, growing passerbys’ anticipation for the launch of our business. When our moment arrived, we smiled and waved until our mouths and arms ached, noses pink in the cold. Two hours, 40 cups of hot chocolate, and 80 cookies later, we had made $100. As long as I can remember, I’ve had a verve for entrepreneurial ventures. I saw my neighbors’ overgrown yards and convinced them to let me pick weeds for money. I proffered myself as a babysitter to every family I met. When demand exceeded quantity at my class Gatorade stand, I held an auction for the highest bidder. As I got older, my ideas got bigger. The summer I turned 14, I created a curriculum for several week-long science and arts summer camps. I made handouts, knocked doors, petitioned neighbors and friends. When more than 30 kids enrolled, I broke the kids into age groups and hired my brothers to manage teams. We studied alkalinity with cabbage water, sublimation with dry ice, and polymers with diaper fill. The next summer I established myself as a reading tutor. I explored the University Reading Center module, came up with dozens of hands-on activities for emerging readers, and recruited a group of regular students. A year later, it was time to put my piano skills to good use. I put out a call on our neighborhood Facebook page, and in a few weeks had two dozen students. Soon, we were doing monthly mini-recitals. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would finally sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he stood up in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him and played without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew all the work I’d done was worth it. The most poignant thing I’ve learned through my community involvement is that business isn’t simply a money-and-numbers mind game. It touches lives. It brings joy to passersby, beautifies neighborhoods, and gives parents a break. It makes kids excited about science and helps grade-schoolers develop a love of reading. It pushes the insecure out of the shadows and into the spotlight. And, most importantly, it helped me develop grit, determination, and a love of the community around me.

I love stories. I thrive in the world of “once upon a time”, in a hole in the ground, in galaxies far, far away. Places where plain country bumpkins become princesses and scrawny orphan boys become wizards. Universes where, with infinite characters and plots, we reveal fundamental truths about humanity. Stories are incredible–they transport, fascinate, and inspire us. Most importantly, they change us. As I child, I was the queen of stories. I was always scribbling ideas in a notebook or ring leading the playground into ultimate the-ground-is-lava. I spent hours under our tree in my backyard, creating imaginary worlds and characters. And at night, when it was just my brothers and me, they'd listen with rapt attention as I wove sagas about our adventures. What started as a love of stories quickly delved into a love of writing. My first story, which I called Sofia Garden, was a cross between Harry Potter and Swan Lake. She had a lightning-shaped scar, evil teachers, and (this still makes me cringe) a pillow pet. It was silly and small, but I didn't care. It was mine. It certainly helped me escape from my problems at school. I was a lonely kid. I remember crouching under a tree at recess, fighting back tears because no one would play with me. I would read books during lunch to avoid the mortification of sitting alone. The kids that had loved my epic games had moved on to other things--walking around the playground, gossiping about other kids. The stories I wrote were my escape hatch from my loneliness. I was eight when I started to read Cinderella stories from other places. We used to go to the library every summer, and each time, I raced to the fairy tale section, scouring the shelves for Cinderella stories from Egypt to China to Spain. I was inspired by Cinderella's kindness and bravery in tough situations, and she became my model for how to live my life. Eventually, I found friends who loved me for who I am. But my obsession with writing didn't end there. Instead, it led to a lifelong obsession with Cinderella stories–reading 100-year-old manuscripts in my local university Special Collections, using Interlibrary Loan to research books from faraway colleges, studying manuscripts published only in French, and meeting with PhD literary specialists to advise on master students’ theses. I’ve given speeches, composed music, and, of course, written my own versions of the story. I’m working with an editor on a manuscript I’ve written about Cinderella tales, and my work has been accepted by an agent at BookStop Literary. Though my obsession with Cinderella stories began as a way to escape my circumstances, I’ve learned to forge my own destiny—shaping a magical journey through kindness, determination, and a sprinkling of good fortune along the way.

I always hated math. Other subjects came easily–I spoke charismatically, wrote effortlessly, and experimented endlessly. I read literary classics, memorized iconic poems every week for an entire summer, researched the genesis of Cinderella folktales, and mimicked Bartok’s composition techniques. I was told I was a ‘smart kid’, and I would’ve felt like a ‘smart kid’, had it not been for math. I was clever, but it took longer for math to click in my head. While other kids glided through the world of multiplication and long division, I stumbled through equations. The numbers others easily separated and analyzed left my head spinning. In 5th grade, I took math tutoring, but instead of expanding my comprehension, it shook my confidence. I got the highest scores in class, but I didn’t feel like I understood. I had imposter syndrome, and I resented math for it. For years, I maintained the status quo. I took honors math classes and did the required work, but avoided asking questions for fear of looking stupid. I still didn’t really understand. Then, one day, something clicked. I noticed that, in Physics, the equations we used to find terminal velocity and momentum were similar to the algebraic formulas I’d learned before. As I played the piano, I realized that intervals in musical chords followed the golden ratio–that the most pleasing chords came from mathematical concepts. Even when I went running, I could see patterns playing out on pinecones, clouds, and mountains. I suddenly saw math as more than a collegiate requirement–it was ubiquitous in all aspects of life, and it actually made sense! I shook the fear of failure that held me back. I talked to my teachers about my struggles, and found that asking for help wasn't as shameful as I'd thought. I worked through my mistakes until I understood the concepts. My path may have been unconventional and slow, but I refused to give up. I calculated the trajectory of rockets and compared my predictions with the results of the launch. I composed musical pieces using the mathematical formulas for chords, instead of improvising, thereby expanding my musical techniques. Every time I stepped outside, I marveled at the fractals and Fibonacci sequences I saw. Most importantly, I found out that I did love math. I loved how applicable it was, how beautiful it was. I stopped shooting for a grade and finally shot for the moon.

In fifth grade, I wore pink, played dress-up, and adored princesses. In short, I was a ‘girly-girl’, through and through. My peers occasionally snubbed such behavior, dubbing it childish and extravagant. It baffled me. What was wrong with being girly? Simultaneously, equal rights permeated my childhood. I was raised in a home of strong women, where my sisters and I were told we were 'smart' 'brave' and 'bouncy', just as much as we were 'pretty' or 'cute. During high school, I was a founding member of the Brighton High chapter of Girl Up, a club focusing on women’s empowerment. I headed a service project making and bringing meals to victims in battered women’s shelters. I also helped build packets as part of the Utah Period Project, working to end period poverty in struggling demographic areas of the state. I believed women should experiment, represent, and protest. But I still had questions about my identity as a ‘girly-girl’ and a feminist that remained unanswered, and it manifested itself especially in the stories I loved. I am an avid scholar of Cinderella folklore. I am fascinated with its travels on the Silk Road and Spice Roads and its evolution through culture and history. Many people criticize Cinderella for being too passive. Her stories, from South Africa to Switzerland, proved otherwise. Still, the criticism shook me. If Cinderella was considered sexist because she was gentle and sweet, then what was I? Too often people assume that to be a feminist, one must be loud, strong, and masculine. In doing so, some snub traditionally feminine roles and behaviors. For being kind and considerate, Cinderella is dismissed as a doormat and a dreamer. For loving princesses, little girls are labeled naive. And so we degrade feminism into petty arguments about what’s acceptable and what’s not. But I refused to see it that way. Feminism is believing that all women can pursue whatever their dreams are, masculine or feminine, at home or in the workplace. In the future, I will continue my research on Cinderella and feminism, and collaborate with others who have similar passions. I want to prove that one can believe in happy endings, and still work for them. Most importantly, I will show that we must embrace femininity while we challenge masculinity. Only then can we rise from the ashes to fight the stepmothers and cynics who have their feet on our necks.

Whether I was writing pieces for my brothers' LEGO games, singing Disney songs, or listening to the Firebird suite, music has always permeated my life. I didn’t start formal music training–piano lessons–until I was 8 years old, and admittedly didn’t enjoy it at first. But after six years of daily practice, I started having fun. I played three or four hours a day, only to wish there was more time. Little by little, I started getting better. Basic pieces became Beethoven, Bach, and the Beatles. I switched out Hanon exercises for Handel. Chopsticks for Chopin. My tiny hands stretched to lengths I previously thought impossible. I started figuring out the notes for popular songs I heard. Soon I was writing pieces of my own, including themes based on the book The Mysterious Benedict Society, music for a student short film, and a series of piano solos about Chinese folklore. All along, I was having small experiences on the side that reaffirmed the power of music. I was able to start my own business teaching piano lessons, eventually amassing more than 30 students. Soon, we were doing monthly mini-recitals. Each time, 11-year-old Nolan hid in the car while the other kids performed. When the last people trickled out, he would sneak inside and play his piece, just for me. A year later, he played in a formal recital with two hundred eyes on him, without breaking a sweat. As he stood to bow, he beamed, and I knew that piano had changed him, like it had changed me. Music is more than a string of sounds– it stirs emotions and resonates with hearts. I plan to get both an undergraduate and master’s degree in Music Theory and Composition, hopefully in a dual-degree program designed for students who want to develop both academically and musically. For my career, I hope to be a film composer, so I, too, can create music that has a sweeping impact, that endures for generations. In the future, music will do more than enrich my life. It will define my career and refine my character. It will give my hopes a voice and my ambitions wings. Hans Zimmer once said, “I want to go and write music that announces to you that you can feel something,” and I couldn’t have put it better myself. I know that music has the power to change lives. It's certainly changed mine, and I hope to use it to change many others in the years to come.

Took a good look in the bathroom mirror: Thought to myself, what happened here? Living in a world that’s built on fear, People come to touch our lives and disappear. What happens to the memories that disappear? Do they fade into the dirt, with the worms and the dust? Do they last a burning moment, then dissolve into the crust? Maybe they’re embalmed beneath our eyes and our smile, Stories that extend to us, and last a while, Till they burn, till we learn, till we twist them with denial. Pictures keep the memories alive in our day. Pictures store the horrors that will never go away. Pictures make us panic at the world we have betrayed, The world we would’ve helped, could’ve nurtured, should’ve saved. And the memories, they stay. Gazed at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, Wonder what will happen on the day I disappear. Would the people notice, would they shed a tear? Will they pay rememberance to the life I reared? Will the day arrive when they forget that I was here? Will the people notice when I disappear?

David was 80 feet in the air, pretending to be a tree. It wasn’t going well. No one was truly convinced except the birds. They kept landing on his arms, realizing he was human, and flying away in a feathery mess. He hadn’t realized it until now, but he hated birds. Their stupid squawking and clawing and… everything else they entailed. Ben found him easily. “What are you doing?“ He asked, standing underneath him. David moved his leg to a higher branch. “I’m pretending to be a tree.” Ben’s face scrunched up. “That doesn’t make any sense!” “It does when you’re hiding. From Grant.” Ben rolled his eyes. “Why would you be hiding from Grant?” David raised an eyebrow. “You know, for being the first person to get a 37 on the ACT–” “38,” Ben corrected. “38. Right. Anyway, you don’t seem to be as aware as you ought to be.” Ben was offended. He was perfectly aware of the world around him, thank you very much! He was about to tell David so, when David made a little squeaking noise and laid very, very still. Grant came crashing through the bushes, straight towards the tree. He practically leaped onto it, swinging himself into upright position, breathing heavily. “Where’s David?” he panted. Ben looked at David, then looked at Grant. “You seriously can’t see him?” Grant grimaced. “I still can’t believe he got away… I was right on his trail…” Grant clenched his teeth. “ When I get my hands on him!...” “But he’s… right there,” Ben said, pointing. Another bird had landed on David’s arm, making a demon screech. David was shooing it away as quietly as he could. Grant was pacing back and forth on a branch of the tree. “Wait ‘til I get my hands on him…” “What did he even do?” Seara asked. She had just arrived. “He pretended to be a tree. Along with other stuff I don’t know about yet.” Grant shouted something, but neither Seara nor Ben understood. Something about physics and rubber ducks. “I don’t see him,” Seara admitted. “Neither do I,” Cameron said. He had just appeared right behind Ben. “GAAH!” Ben shouted. “Where did you come from?” Seara asked Cameron. Cameron shrugged. “I have my secrets…” “Hey, guys.” Mason walked in through the gate, like a normal person. Cameron was not impressed. “There’s cooler ways to enter a room. You didn’t even hop the fence,” he was telling Mason. “Where’s David?” Mason asked. By this point, Ben was getting frustrated. “AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO SEES HIM??” “Chill, Ben,” Mason said, “We can’t all be as smart as you.” Ben looked indignant. “This isn’t about being smart!!” “Why is David in a tree?”, Enya asked. “Thank you!” Ben yelled. Enya glanced over. “Okayy….” “What did I miss?” Fay asked. She and Caylee had just come in from the house and were watching Grant climb the maple tree. “David may or may not be in the tree,” Seara explained. “Ah,” Enya said, “Schrodinger’s David. I get it now.” Caylee laughed. “Wait, David’s up there? I only see Grant.” “ I can’t believe that worked,” David said. Grant whooped triumphantly, and David had to jump out of the tree. He started running the minute he hit the ground, Grant close on his heels, like an episode of Roadrunner and Coyote. Cameron squinted as they ran into the distance. “I still can’t see David.”