about me
resume
personal narrative
I cry a lot. I cried when my dog chewed up my Pre-K diploma. My 5-year-old self could not fathom that the symbol of my hard work was scattered in pieces across my back lawn. I cried because, in fourth grade, I wanted to stay inside and keep working on my writing practice instead of playing on the playground. I cried because, after hours of dedication and a year of hard work, I held the yearbook my best friends and I poured our hearts into creating. I cried even more because we still managed to distribute that book in the midst of a pandemic to students whose school years were cut short.
When I found out I broke my foot at summer camp and could not play my sophomore volleyball season, tears filled my eyes again. However, being broken on the sidelines made me realize I preferred to be there, but with a camera in my hand instead of a ball. So, I tried out for a different team. The Legend Yearbook Staff. Finally, my time, passion and dedication felt valued. I wasn’t watching on the sidelines anymore. I was on the scene, photographing and documenting the same things that used to dominate my anxieties. Yearbook was there for me when I felt like nothing else was.
I cried when my photo, representing mental health, was published by the New York Times after it won the ‘Show Us Your Generation’ photography contest because, finally, my insecurities felt accepted in the world. This opportunity I found as a staff member allowed me to see that journalism mattered to me and that what I shared mattered to others. It gave my words and feelings merit and I found my true voice for the first time as a scholastic journalist.
After this, I had one goal in mind: to become Editor-in-Chief in my junior and senior year. And yes, you guessed it, I cried when I was informed that I would get the privilege of leading my staff because I was overwhelmed with joy.
When school was canceled due to COVID-19, I finished my junior year and the yearbook virtually, like most. As a student journalist, I felt it was important to capture what was happening to my school and community. So, I wiped my tears and got to work collecting interviews and photos to create the last-minute addition to the 2020 yearbook, a coronavirus spread. My spread won a National Student Press Association Outstanding Coronavirus Coverage award with first place. This exposure aided in my acceptance to Harvard University’s Coronavirus Visualization Team, a group of high school and college students from around the globe battling the “infodemic” of coronavirus coverage with accessible data visualizations. I helped with public relations and graphic design.
My happiest and most heartbreaking moments share a commonality; a salty, sticky one. It’s crying. Every milestone in my life is stained with my tears. I love my tears. They mean I am experiencing life to the point it overflows me and that my pain, joy, excitement or loss cannot be held inside anymore.
I cried to my mother on my seventh birthday because I liked the number six too much to move on to seven. I cried in the parking lot of my favorite ice cream shop because my best friend and I couldn’t stop laughing. I cried when the 2019 yearbook came out and the editors gave their speeches to each other because I realized how special being a part of the Legend Staff was.
But, it was the silent crying in the bathroom when I had to recollect myself and convince myself that I could keep going, that I could finish that deadline for the yearbook, that I could go and stand in front of a gymnasium full of people and take those pictures. I was on a mission, fueling my passion by burning my own doubtful, anxious thoughts one by one.
Becoming a scholastic journalist set me free from my own insecurities. It gave me an uncomfortable comfort zone, a space that challenged me to speak up, that demanded me to be the best version of myself that I could be and allowed me to help others in the process. It’s in those moments that the true joy of being the Editor-in-Chief of the Legend Yearbook shines through the clouds of bad days, anxiety attacks, doubts and fears. My time on the Legend Staff has prepared me for my future, showing me time and time again that I can do anything I put my mind to, even more so with a camera in my hand.
Holding that camera on the side of the court of a varsity volleyball game as a senior, I took a step back. I took a deep breath. I looked around. I realized how far I had come. I knew that I finally found where I belonged.
When I found out I broke my foot at summer camp and could not play my sophomore volleyball season, tears filled my eyes again. However, being broken on the sidelines made me realize I preferred to be there, but with a camera in my hand instead of a ball. So, I tried out for a different team. The Legend Yearbook Staff. Finally, my time, passion and dedication felt valued. I wasn’t watching on the sidelines anymore. I was on the scene, photographing and documenting the same things that used to dominate my anxieties. Yearbook was there for me when I felt like nothing else was.
I cried when my photo, representing mental health, was published by the New York Times after it won the ‘Show Us Your Generation’ photography contest because, finally, my insecurities felt accepted in the world. This opportunity I found as a staff member allowed me to see that journalism mattered to me and that what I shared mattered to others. It gave my words and feelings merit and I found my true voice for the first time as a scholastic journalist.
After this, I had one goal in mind: to become Editor-in-Chief in my junior and senior year. And yes, you guessed it, I cried when I was informed that I would get the privilege of leading my staff because I was overwhelmed with joy.
When school was canceled due to COVID-19, I finished my junior year and the yearbook virtually, like most. As a student journalist, I felt it was important to capture what was happening to my school and community. So, I wiped my tears and got to work collecting interviews and photos to create the last-minute addition to the 2020 yearbook, a coronavirus spread. My spread won a National Student Press Association Outstanding Coronavirus Coverage award with first place. This exposure aided in my acceptance to Harvard University’s Coronavirus Visualization Team, a group of high school and college students from around the globe battling the “infodemic” of coronavirus coverage with accessible data visualizations. I helped with public relations and graphic design.
My happiest and most heartbreaking moments share a commonality; a salty, sticky one. It’s crying. Every milestone in my life is stained with my tears. I love my tears. They mean I am experiencing life to the point it overflows me and that my pain, joy, excitement or loss cannot be held inside anymore.
I cried to my mother on my seventh birthday because I liked the number six too much to move on to seven. I cried in the parking lot of my favorite ice cream shop because my best friend and I couldn’t stop laughing. I cried when the 2019 yearbook came out and the editors gave their speeches to each other because I realized how special being a part of the Legend Staff was.
But, it was the silent crying in the bathroom when I had to recollect myself and convince myself that I could keep going, that I could finish that deadline for the yearbook, that I could go and stand in front of a gymnasium full of people and take those pictures. I was on a mission, fueling my passion by burning my own doubtful, anxious thoughts one by one.
Becoming a scholastic journalist set me free from my own insecurities. It gave me an uncomfortable comfort zone, a space that challenged me to speak up, that demanded me to be the best version of myself that I could be and allowed me to help others in the process. It’s in those moments that the true joy of being the Editor-in-Chief of the Legend Yearbook shines through the clouds of bad days, anxiety attacks, doubts and fears. My time on the Legend Staff has prepared me for my future, showing me time and time again that I can do anything I put my mind to, even more so with a camera in my hand.
Holding that camera on the side of the court of a varsity volleyball game as a senior, I took a step back. I took a deep breath. I looked around. I realized how far I had come. I knew that I finally found where I belonged.