My story of growth did not begin with ambition. It began with exhaustion.
I grew up in a home ruled by patriarchy and silence. My father—the unquestioned provider—was emotionally absent and occasionally punitive. My mother, crushed by a broken marriage, relied on me as her emotional outlet. There was no space for confusion or rebellion. I was taught to obey before I could even ask why. In that kind of system, love was conditional, safety was a performance, and survival meant suppressing myself until I disappeared.
Naturally, I carried this mindset into the world: speak less, feel less, disturb nothing. But the world is not a vacuum. Without a loving, caring, and accompanied system, I lacked the basic emotional infrastructure to interact with others—to form boundaries, to ask for help, to know what I even wanted. I couldn’t handle the chaos of campus life. So I fled.
Taking a gap year wasn’t a brave act—it was an act of collapse. But in that collapse, something shifted. Alone in foreign cities, navigating housing, discrimination, and decisions my parents could never guide me through, I began to notice: I was solving problems. Real ones. I had a white professor who discriminated against me openly, and I stood up for myself. I lived on my own terms, for the first time. For a moment, I thought: maybe I am strong.
But that realization, though comforting, was shallow. Strength without clarity can still become aggression, defensiveness, illusion. I needed more than the feeling of power—I needed the thinking that could sustain it. And that’s what MSA gave me.
MSA didn’t just allow me to take a gap year—it welcomed me back with questions. Through courses like AP Seminar, World History, and Western Philosophy, I was introduced to a new vocabulary of self-understanding. I learned to name systems— patriarchy, empire, race, trauma—not to excuse them, but to analyze them. I learned that the world isn’t always explainable. Not everything happens for a reason. Randomness, power, and contradiction shape more than justice ever has.
And this changed everything.
I used to believe that those who hurt me were simply stronger. Now I see they were often just earlier—earlier in their wounds, earlier in their failures, earlier in facing a world they never understood. I stopped asking why they failed me, and began to understand why they failed themselves. That’s when I stopped trying to win, and started trying to live.
MSA gave me a framework for making sense of pain, and for transforming it into insight. It allowed me to think critically without losing emotional precision, and to rebuild a sense of self not out of performance, but of presence.
I no longer want to be obedient, or even strong. I want to be clear—and that clarity is the most valuable thing I’ve earned.
At a surface level, I’ve contributed to MSA in the ways that are easiest to measure: I helped with campus marketing, designed materials to attract new students, and eventually became one of those “successful” case studies featured in college admissions propaganda. I’ve produced academic work I’m proud of, and I know some of it has inspired others. But none of that, to me, is the heart of what I’ve offered this community.
What I truly believe is this: my existence here is already a form of contribution.
I have lived through pain, stayed through confusion, and risen from collapse. I have remained curious when it was easier to become cynical. I have spoken the truth when silence would have been more convenient. I have kept faith in my future, even when the past felt too heavy to carry. And that, I think, is exactly what the spirit of Moonshot stands for.
Perseverance. Clarity. Compassion. The relentless pursuit of meaning in a world that often offers none. I didn’t just absorb these values—I embodied them. MSA always says this community is built by people. I am one of those people. My presence, my story, my daily being here—these are not accidental. They are a kind of offering.
I’m not perfect. But I am real. I have brought a particular energy to this place— sometimes intense, sometimes gentle, always sincere. I believe in the idealism that built this school. I reflect its diversity, its ambition, its struggle to become better.
And so, my greatest contribution to MSA has not been what I’ve achieved, but the kind of person I’ve insisted on becoming within its walls.
I’ve been admitted to the Liberal Studies Core at New York University. I chose this program, in part, because it was more accessible than other NYU schools, like Stern, but also because I’m a student of the humanities at heart. The curriculum offers me the space to explore ideas, history, and philosophy—subjects that have shaped the way I see the world.
But I’ve also always lived at the intersection of idealism and urgency.
My future isn’t just about academic exploration. It’s also about escape—about gaining financial independence so I can leave behind a family structure that has, for much of my life, confined and silenced me. I don’t want to rely on anyone. I don’t plan to pursue a master’s degree or a PhD. I want to build a life that is sustainable and mine, starting right after college.
That presents a dilemma. The majors I’m most passionate about—History and Gender Studies—are not traditionally “practical.” In many cases, staying on those tracks requires advanced degrees. Meanwhile, the job market for international students in the United States is brutally narrow. Liberal arts graduates often get only one year of OPT, meaning just one chance to apply for the H1B visa. If I want to stay overseas, especially in the U.S., I need to be strategic.
That’s why I’m already considering a double major in Economics, or an internal transfer to NYU Stern. But I’ll be honest: I also care deeply about prestige. I’m drawn to institutions with legacy, intellectual depth, and global recognition—not just because they “look good,” but because I’ve worked hard enough to know I belong there. If NYU gives me what I need, I’ll take advantage of its resources. But if I find that the academic culture lacks the rigor or clarity I’m seeking, I will apply to transfer to a higher-ranking university, perhaps even an Ivy League or a top 10 liberal arts college. That aspiration doesn’t embarrass me. It motivates me.
To me, prestige isn’t about appearances—it’s about access. Access to stronger networks, better mentorship, and the kind of peers who challenge you to grow every day. I want to be surrounded by people who take ideas seriously and who live with ambition. I want my bachelor’s degree to be a launchpad, not a limit.
Whatever exact path I end up choosing—whether I stay at NYU, transfer elsewhere, pursue economics, or return fully to the humanities—I know that much of what I imagine today will shift. The future, after all, is still unwritten. But no matter how far I go or how different my life becomes from what I now expect, I will always carry with me the power, the clarity, and the love that MSA gave me. This community didn’t just educate me. It accompanied me. And that, more than any plan or title, is what I’ll hold onto.