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The cave of two Fulbright fellows in recovery. I say recovery because that's what this week felt like. After two months of calling Delhi something like home or trying to will it to be some iteration of that. Laila and I decided it was time to "shift." Shifting is a word used in colloquial Indian English to mean moving residencies. In America, we distill movement into the physical sense ("I moved") whereas in India, we "shift. Shifting seems to recognize that changing localities not only impacts your physical body, but also your circles of people, routine, and perspective on the world. When we shift and simultaneously, the world shifts around us––for better or for worse. Our shift away from Delhi was for the better. It was recovery in the sense that, for the first time in my life, I learned what it meant to give myself grace. It’s easy to tell other people to take a break and care for themselves, but for me to live that was previously unheard of. This week revealed recovery from months of overstimulation, self-doubt, and self-loathing. It showed how one can care for herself in the aftermath of something like trauma. In many ways, and in all honesty, that's what Delhi felt like. This week I've felt freedom and exhaustion upon shifting felt like detox. So when you look at these pictures, I was you to notice the bright orange curtains coupled with the scenic view. I want you to notice the sun bright in the sky and how blue it looks even through the glass window. I want you to begin to imagine a sky where the sun shines orange through a haze of pollution that blankets the city and where the sky is painted a permanent shade of gray. I want you to imagine filling your lungs with air in a place that feels refreshing rather than lethal. The pollution in Delhi is scary––simply put. Even on days when you don't wake up feeling like a giant spent the night sitting on your chest, the news stories never fail to remind you of how many cigarettes your daily outings will cost your lungs. So this picture of a cave, nestled in the mountains is a picture of recovery and resilience. It's a picture of creativity and knowledge sharing. And more than anything, it's a picture of hope for a future that doesn't have to mirror its past. The brainstorming littering the carpet, stacks of books informing theory, empty glasses that were once full of tea, computers, and loose notebook pages, are also months of hardship and struggle. I'm thankful for this quiet week. To find new meaning in my work and genuine excitement for the opportunity I have been given. I think something that is seldom talked about and wasn't understood by me until recently is just how much our bodies tell us. How much they reveal about where we need to be. In Delhi, I experienced bouts of depression in ways I never had before. I was unmotivated and found the every day and my routine exhausting. I resented myself for needing to rest more than usual and couldn't understand why I lacked energy I once had. But here, I embrace simplicity, forgiveness, and a new beginning that has revealed the true beauty in shifting.

We stumbled into a sort of love that didn’t suit us, danced naively through each others hearts like children, and played with matches before we knew how quickly an open flame could drown a house of cards. In India, fire "drowns". Suffocated by a spark we didn't know how to tame. Someday, we will meet again with aged hands and wrinkles that run with the nature of love we needed to learn. Because not even time can hide from subtle smirks, that remember the serenity we felt before we were strangers tracing forever along forest floors.

You fall in love with a little part of every person that you meet. That’s what you told me. So why do I see forever behind the eyes of everyone who is captivated by mine, when I know my feelings are bound to be washed away before I give them a second glance. How can I reconcile willing an eternity based on a passing feeling, because yes, I felt it too, but while you were weaving forever through the fabric of your mind, I remained, arms outstretched, unaware of how to weave you into mine. I stand motionless, while the stitches of my love, or almost, or something like more than like and lust, but maybe not quite love, unravel. Although I’ve pictured forever, because I always do, I reach out, fully aware that my fear of falling conquers anything I allow myself to feel. So I remain, unable to know how to be unequivocally in love with you.

How much can you really learn about the place around you during the first 30 minutes that you’ve been awake? I never knew or maybe understood the potential for how much there is to learn in such a short period of time. In some ways I feel like a sponge of sorts, taking in all of the information, and when I think that I’m full and can’t take anymore, I do, and the realm of my perceived possibilities and understanding of life around me continues to expand. I should have gone to sleep earlier last night, but I didn’t. I stayed up until I could barely keep my eyes open because there was so much that I needed to do, namely write about my experiences because this time has been so formative. So this morning I woke up to a loud knock at my door. "Ugh,” I didn’t tell Sushma DiDi what I wanted to eat today, and I only have one egg instead of two and she’s going to wonder what else I will have to eat if I only have one egg left, and if I say one egg, she will be concerned that I haven’t gotten enough food and I don't know enough Hindi to ask her to make me something else. So I lift my body out of my cocoon, pull on a sweatshirt and answer the door. There is no sense of personal space here, so if I didn't answer the door, she would come right in and think nothing of it. I forgot everything that I wanted to eat today, until I took a deep breath and recalled how to ask for the food I wanted her to make. In Hindi I first communicate that I do not need dinner. I then said, using the sentence structures I’ve been practicing in Hindi class, please make cabbage and potatoes with rice. I thought that I did a great job explaining what I wanted, but clearly something was wrong because Sushma DiDi told me to follow her while she knocked on Akanksha and Ananya’s door. She explained to them that the food I asked for was too dry and would I like a dal with it. I said that it was okay. Little does she know that at home the food we eat is extremely dry, rarely do we mix in a soup with any of it and that it’s totally okay for it to be that way––at least in my opinion. So I sad no thank you and retreated to my room. While I pulled on a pair of pants (out of my sweatpants), I realized that I might have offended her, and went back to the kitchen and kindly asked in Hindi for Sushma Di to please make me some dal along with the cabbage, rice, potatoes. When she understood she smiled. I then had to remedy the egg situation. So I grabbed 150 rupees because I know that eggs are 145. I pulled on a sweatshirt despite in being 78 degrees, but this is the coldest that it’s been since I have been here and I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to wear a sweatshirt. I ran down the stairs keys, phone, and cash in hand––everything happens in cash here. You can pay with google pay, but I see most people, especially older people relying only on cash. I ran down the street and saw parents with their children walking to school. I think school must begin at 8 here because this was around 7:45. I rounded the corner and made it to the stand where I buy my eggs. I think that it’s funny that I can walk down my block to buy eggs at a store that in American we would call “a hole in the wall.” I’ve learned that I need to be assertive here, no matter how uncomfortable it makes me. I have to insert my body next to the line of men that crowd the counter and unlike at home, I have to blurt out what I want or else other people will do so first and get the items they need before me. There’s no such thing as queuing here. Stores feel chaotic to me, because even the notion of waiting in a queue can’t be easy. I got my eggs and my 5 rupees in change, and walked home. As I rounded the corner, I saw the man with the fruit cart, yelling to the colony as he does everyday. Before today, I didn’t realize that it was him yelling. He yells to tell everyone that he is here with fruit to sell. After I passed him, I continued home. I promptly dropped the eggs on the counter and Sushma Di smiled. She then asked me if I like the rain. I know how to talk about the weather in Hindi now, so I did. I said that I thought that the rain was good, and that it was nice that it was cold today––cold for Delhi standards to be more specific. Then I moved over to the stove to peer into the pots of everything she was making. She asked me if I liked to cook, and I responded that I do, a little. Then we both smiled, proud, I think that we actually had a conversation where we both understood, on our own. I could talk about the large scale accomplishments that I have found over the first month, but the reality is, I have found my greatest successes in the mundane. The moments that I didn’t expect, like an impromptu conversation in Hindi, or genuine care from a stranger have brought be the greatest sense of belonging and subsequently, happiness. Over the past month, I have been discouraged by my lack of large scale accomplishments, but I am constantly reminded of my small victories.

I listened to Elyse Myer's podcast the other day. Her theme song is unfinished and she openly admits at the beginning that she wanted to make it perfect. That resonated with me in few things have––the paralysis that accompanies perfectionism. I expect myself to be perfect in many of the things that I do, this page being one of them. I thought for a long time that the writing that I put on here had to be eloquent, profound, and without any errors. I began writing an email to my grandparents. I wanted to send photos with captions and explanations for what I was doing. I realized then that others might be interested as well. by shifting the audience of these blog posts from my own criticism, to my grandparents reading to learn more about my life here, I felt a sense of freedom––they all know that I'm imperfect. They know that my writing will inevitably have errors, but they love me because of those imperfections. I am writing this post on the website itself––something that I would have never done before in hopes that it will push me to post unfinished pieces that give whoever is reading them a little insight into what's going on in my brain right now. This post simply serves as a disclaimer that I am releasing myself and this blog from the perfectionism I once sought within it––so if you see typos, if the wording irritates you, or if pieces seem unfinished, I encourage you to consider that the posts wouldn't exist without them.

When I returned from school in June I wanted to write. I wanted to reflect on everything that happened over the past four years and begin to process the cacophony of emotions that spun like a top in the back of my mind. I found an unused composition notebook from 3rd grade reading that I have since written countless entries into. I never imagined that the first time I wrote in that journal would be after my college graduation. When I was in third grade, I remember thinking that 16 was incomprehensibly old. I couldn’t begin to fathom being in my twenties. While the notebook remained empty, in my family’s arts and crafts closet, I grew up, through ages I never thought I would be old enough to experience. I was the eighth grader confidently breezing through the middle school hallways. I was the high schooler holding her first pair of keys, and the varsity captain leading her team through playoffs. Then I was the college student who listened to the younger version of herself and left her comfort zone for college. I was the student who led with intention and belief in others, and who graduated with even bigger ambitions than when she began. As I reflect on my college experience and the new realm of possibilities the world holds for me, I write this to the third-grader, with dreams bigger than her little body. I’m not surprised that I didn’t write anything in that reading notebook. I rarely held my attention long enough to read much of anything, much less to write notes about any of it. I did, however, love stories. I loved immersing myself in a realm of unknown characters with familiar feelings. Over the years I've come to realize that shared experience itself doesn’t evoke universal human connection but rather shared emotions derived from tangible experiences. We foster connection by dissolving and applying deep-seated emotions to our individual vaults of experience. Emotions challenge many of us, because the only way they can be communicated, linguistically, is through the lens of events, that we may not all share. But emotions, for me, are felt through passive glances and innocent gestures. In May, I sat in the back seat on a drive from Joshua Tree to Palm springs. I was compelled to reach toward Rosie––my best friend of nearly four years, biggest fan, peppiest supporter, loudest cheerleader, most honest critic, and best motivator––, who sat silently in the passenger seat. I reached forward for her hand. Without exchanging any words, we both began weeping. We wept for the time that seamlessly slipped through our fingertips that were now gripping one another firmly; it was as if our grasp, at that moment would preserve time and keep us from the looming separation we faced. We wept for the knowledge that our time living in the immediate vicinity of one another would quickly draw to a close. We didn’t weep because we regretted how we spent our time, but rather because of the realization that the time we thought was infinite was quickly waning. One direction has a song that asks “Does it ever drive you crazy, just how fast the night changes?” While I was never a staunch ‘Directioner’ these words held an unexpected weight during the last week of school. I watched two sunrises that week, and yes, it drove me crazy just how fast the night changed. Crazy because the lustfulness of the night fled before my eyes to reveal a reality that I wasn’t ready to face––the inevitability that my time in California was limited and that my decision to do the scariest thing I could think of was on the horizon. There is so much more that I have to learn, and while pure jubilation and the energy radiating from every pour of my body were real, it’s also how I know that I am ready. The love I feel from everyone around me: unadulterated, unequivocal, wholehearted love––that I honestly did not know was possible––gives me the conviction that it is time to move forward. I am ready to rebuild my life in a new place with new people because I developed the tools to do so. Maybe that makes it easier to leave it all behind. To cope with the loss that I am feeling and to internalize my own struggle. But I remain caught in the parity of how lucky I feel to have people who make saying goodbye so hard.

Three cups of flour, three eggs, three cups of milk, one-third cup of oil, two tablespoons of baking powder, one-half cup of sugar, and a quarter teaspoon of salt. Blend. Place a griddle on the stovetop on high heat, wait until it’s hot (this was always the hardest part for me. My family will tell you, I am admittedly not very patient especially when I am hungry), splash a few drops of water onto the pan, if the water dances and sizzles, melt butter onto the griddle followed by heaping dollops of batter, wait again, flip each pancake when you begin to see the top bubble, but more realistically when your family notices a slightly charred smell, remove from heat when the fire alarm goes off. Burnt blender pancakes became a running joke in my family. They weren’t always burnt, but when they were, it was typically at the hands of my Grandfather. Growing up in New England gave my sisters and I, what I’ve come far too familiar with as an “east coast edge.” This is to say that we convey love through sarcasm and ridicule––a love language that few people outside of New England understand, and far fewer appreciate. When Grandpa burnt pancakes, we were ruthless. The chaos of the smoke alarm, and our parents frantically swinging towels through the air to dispel the smoke had all three of us hunched over cackling until our cheeks hurt. I should emphasize that my Grandpa indeed made incredible pancakes, but memories of mornings in a smokey kitchen and panicking parents are cemented in the repertoire of my earliest childhood memories. Grandpa’s pancake recipe is the only one of many family recipes passed down through generations I can nearly recall by heart. This is partially due to the sheer volume of pancakes that my family has made over the years, but mostly due to the ease of the recipe. Leave it up to my Grandpa, who claims he didn’t understand math until he got to calculus, to create such an eloquently numbered recipe. I share this story not because it is the most prominent memory I have of him, nor because the smell of a smokey kitchen still makes me giggle, but because it reveals, that like everyone, my Grandpa was imperfect. While I am your typical type-A, perfectionist, my Grandpa taught me that we must embrace imperfection. He showed me that mistakes are as inevitable as the seasonal changes of the constellations. Orion’s belt, was his favorite, but it doesn’t appear in the night sky during the month of August. I know this because he painted the constellations from the August night sky, when I was born, on the ceiling of my first bedroom. In tribulation, he decided whether or not to include Orion. Although Orion isn’t always physically visible, he knew that it would always reappear, as with similar certainty he knew, that he would burn more pancakes. The summer after my First Year at Santa Clara University, my best friend, visited me in Maine. I wanted to show her my home from my favorite vantage point: the waters of Casco Bay. The only hindrance was my dad’s deliberate rule that prohibited me from taking the boat out without him. My most notable characteristic is my drive. While in many ways it is a positive attribute, it has tested my parent’s patience nearly everyday for the past 22 years. I knew that if I asked my dad to take out the boat, the response would be a definitive “no.” So, I didn’t ask. It was a quintessential Maine day; I wanted, so badly to tell my dad about how beautifully the boat road through the water, how I carved in and out of the lobster buoys like he did, and how I docked the boat perfectly, but I held it in. A week later, he confronted me. “When were you gonna tell me you took the boat out.” My expression went blank and my face turned as white as a sheet. I panicked. Internally I thought back through the day to search for any memory of something that could have gone wrong. Guilt stricken, I asked how he found out. “You didn’t tie it up right.” He replied. In utter disbelief that this was how he caught me, I responded: “you’ve got to be kidding me.” How could I have possibly tied it differently, when he and my Grandpa were the ones who taught me. Upon reflection, my dad adopted the same ownership of “his boat” as my Grandpa: the only person allowed to drive and the only one who noticed the slightest difference when anyone else docked. In my defense, the two of them have no one to blame but themselves for revealing the thrill that accompanies speed, both on the water and in the mountains. Throughout his life, my Grandpa was truly in an endless pursuit of the next great frontier, but I didn’t understand what that meant until the summer of 2020. I was backpacking through California’s Emigrant Wilderness––just north of Yosemite Valley––with three of my closest fiends. One night, we sat silently to watch the sun set over the mountains we spent the previous days climbing. Simultaneously, we internalized the beauty and serenity of the wilderness around us. In those moments, I felt my eyes well up with unabated tears. For the first time, I understood what my grandfather had been seeking in the outdoors, for so long. I felt an intrinsic connectedness not only to the world around me, but to him. I saw the nobility of the trees that towered over the forest floor and the innocence of the mayflowers blowing in the wind. I think that the tears were a product of an engrained understanding that despite my Grandfather’s inability to share that physical experience with me, we were similarly captivated by the outdoors. In those moments, I saw him as a role model, in a way I hadn’t before. Until then, I wasn’t ready for the lessons he taught me while I grew up. In all honesty, I had been completely oblivious to the wealth of knowledge he had to share. Timing is peculiar, because while my Grandfather was teaching me the greatest lessons of my life, I wasn’t ready to appreciate them. In moments of personal reflection, I wish that I could return and thank him. My Grandpa was a physicist, cemented in his knowledge that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. Despite my inability to tell him, I share these memories with you all today, confident that he knows how deeply he impacted me, because I know that his energy remains in the waves that crash under the dock, the howling of the wind through frozen tree branches, the flames of roaring beach fires, the jubilant smiles from the first bite of ice cream. I feel his energy in the sighs of relief and pride after turning in a final exam, in the blustering sails of ships, and in the love that I feel from my family when I travel far from home. He taught me that love is not in spite of, but because of burnt pancakes and that love, like Orion’s belt, might leave my physical vantage point, but with certainty, it will return with the same vigor as if it were permanently posited in the night sky.

I am a leader, explorer, student, and collaborator with a remarkable drive. I grew up in a small town in Maine and traveled to California for college. This was a big leap of faith for me and ultimately proved to be a transformative experience in which I learned to discover my identity independent from my graduating class of 100 peers, with whom I attended school since kindergarten. During the spring quarter of my first year at Santa Clara, I joined, what I deemed to be the coolest club on campus, Into the Wild––Into the Wild is the zaniest group of nature-loving granola eaters, mountain summiteers, log-hoppers, and life enthusiasts who are outliers in every sense of the word. Into the Wild leaders like moving fast, exceeding previous expectations, and continuing to set the bar higher for our successors. We thrive on the awe participants get when they round the corner into Yosemite Valley for the first time and the freedom to lead with authenticity and pride as a result of being a part of such a spectacular organization. Joining Into the Wild has been one of my greatest accomplishments because, like many other first-year college students, I struggled. When I traveled to school on the West Coast, I left the safety net I had so carefully curated. In what seemed like a single moment, I unpacked my first college dorm room, my parents flew home, and I was left to my own devices, 3000 miles away from the only identity I have ever known. My first two quarters were defined by disappointment and subsequent shame as I processed the first tangible failures of my life. As I sat in Benson drinking my coffee one morning, I watched people whirl around me. They gave brief greetings in passing and continued on with their days. I realized that while I knew and even considered myself to be friends with many of the people whom I saw on a daily basis, none of them knew the intricacies of my identity––and in large part, I blamed myself. From my own understanding, many people saw college, a new place, and a new peer group as an opportunity to break free of their former identity and introduce a better version of themselves. I, however, loved who I was in high school but had trouble finding that version of myself in a place where I had more choices than which AP classes to take or which sports to play to fill the void of time after school each season. Throughout my first and second quarters of college, I made friends but consistently questioned my identity at Santa Clara. C.S. Lewis shared the belief that friendships hold a mirror to our authentic selves––but, at that point, I didn’t have any mirrors and was becoming disillusioned with both my former and present self; so I was compelled to stray from the norm that spring break. Knowing no one, I signed up for an Into the Wild trip to the Channel Islands. The night before we were set to depart, the anxiety that had been building over the previous two quarters peaked. I felt my chest tighten, my heart race, and the familiar dizziness that accompanied my panic attacks. Frantically, I searched for plane tickets to fly home. I sobbed, pacing around my room, trying to control my breathing before finally putting myself to bed. Somehow, I willed myself to meet everyone at the cars the next morning. I gave myself permission to back out and fly home if I needed to. Throughout the pre-trip conversations, I questioned what would happen if I had simply walked away. I felt uncertain as to whether or not I would join the group on the trip until we were zipping down the highway away from campus and from my intruding thoughts of escaping to a safe flight home. We drove through a barrage of California highways, south towards Santa Barbara. My initial inclination when I meet people is to be reserved. Growing up, I was very shy. My shyness now manifests itself by avoiding engaging with strangers and holding back my extroverted personality. Throughout the six-hour car ride, we began to drift into conversation. We shared bizarre conspiracies and howled at one another’s most embarrassing stories. I realized on that drive that I had made the right decision and sat with eager anticipation for the week ahead. There were moments that week when I was cold, uncomfortable, and irritated, but the time outside of my bubble of uncertainty reminded me of the person I had been searching for––an adventure seeker who loves a challenge. On the last night of the trip, I scrambled to the top of a rock pile in Joshua Tree to look out over the boulders littering the park floor to watch the sunset in the distance. As I sat in awe, I felt the uncertainty and pressure I carried throughout my first year, release. In those moments, I remembered the version of myself I knew before the anxiety, and stress took over my identity. As I began to recognize myself, I remembered nuances within my identity that I had long forgotten about. I remembered parts that I was proud of, and what it felt like to be inspired by my ideas and passions. When I returned to campus, I was confident in the version of myself I was putting forth. I became more honest and thoughtful in my interactions with my friends and was able to show up in ways I didn’t know I was capable of. That week was the foundation for the support system that I built at Santa Clara. My greatest accomplishment is finding my identity through Into the Wild, sharing it with a group of people I chose, and giving myself the freedom to feel safe and confident in a space where that was not previously the case. I share this story with you not because of the profound experience that spring break and subsequently joining the Into the Wild leadership team brought me, but because it is not unique. After almost two pandemic-derailed years away from Into the Wild’s core of leading trips, we have been able to, once again, provide life-changing experiences to so many participants. Our ability to impact the lives and communities of students at Santa Clara is extraordinary. I know because I was someone whose life changed because of Into the Wild. Over the past year, I have been asked several times how challenging my position within Into the Wild is. I think that there is an allure to the “president” title that draws people in. While being the face of Into the Wild does come with its challenges, my answer has consistently been no. I answer no effortlessly because of the spectacular group of leaders with whom I work every day. Their constant drive and passion for Into the Wild and their vision for the future inspires me to be the best version of myself every time I walk into our office. In my first Into the Wild meeting, I was not only introduced to a group of bizarre, intelligent, and driven leaders, but also to the concept of the “U rock.” I thought that it was the most creative and exciting way to acknowledge people’s contributions to the organization each week. I often say “U rock” to Into the Wild leaders but writing it here doesn’t feel as though it has the significance I intend. So let me provide some context for my interpretation of the “U rock”. “U rock” means that someone looks up to you in admiration for the level of commitment you put into your endeavors, that you are a dependable teammate, that you amplify the voices of others during hardship and celebrate them in times of success. “U rock” means that someone else recognized your innate love for the people and the organization you are a part of and that your passion for it. “U rock” means that you went above and beyond any expectation that someone had for you and that in those moments, you inspired someone else. There have been countless times over the past year when I have been rendered speechless by the work my fellow leaders have done and their devotion to Into the Wild. In these moments, the only words that seem remotely adequate are “U rock.” Into the Wild has given me the platform and the confidence to pursue my own goals and ambitions both within the organization and outside of it. In the spring of 2021, I was accepted to the Miller Center Fellowship, through the Miller Center for Social Entrepreneurship. After completing rigorous coursework that prepared me for the fellowship, I consulted with Oorja Development Solutions (Oorja)––a social enterprise that finances and installs solar mini-grids in low-income rural communities in Uttar Pradesh to power irrigation, agro-processing, and cooling. I used my analytical skills to develop a portfolio for Oorja to allow them to overcome hindrances to impact investment opportunities through gender-focused integration strategies. For Oorja to become a competitive investment prospect, it needed to disaggregate its efforts by gender and implement solutions that recognize the nuanced differences between the needs of men and women both as customers and as employees. This process is consistent with Oorja’s mission to, eventually, positively impact the lives of all farmers in India. I am fascinated by how social enterprises can be used to incite environmental and social change, both abroad and in the US. By utilizing impact models, I can empower companies to add value to the world and create awareness of the importance of incorporating social equity into their infrastructure. As a woman studying in a male-dominated field, I continue to challenge myself to grow as a student and individual. I strive to amplify my voice and, in conjunction, the voices of the women around me. While gender equality is improving, women continue to be marginalized. I hope to accelerate women’s empowerment to co-create a world where all women feel confident speaking up in male-dominated spaces, where women’s lives aren’t chosen for them, and where men are role models for gender equity. The fellowship not only allowed me to work with a social enterprise and learn how to communicate cross-culturally, but it gave me access to a network of inspiring individuals. The cohort of fellows I spent the nine-month duration of the fellowship with are some of the most intelligent and creative students on our campus. Throughout the fellowship, we faced adversity together: from the rigor of the course material to cultural challenges, to finalizing our comprehensive deliverables that would be sent to each organization. The tight-knit community we fostered within the fellowship gave me the confidence to show people a more authentic version of myself. The professors, specifically, Stephen Carroll became a mentor to me during the fellowship. Before my acceptance into the fellowship, I didn’t understand the importance of mentors or the profound impact that they can have on the trajectory of our lives. Dr. Carroll facilitated conversations that allowed me to realize both my goals for my future and the routes I can take to achieve them. Since the fellowship was done remotely during the summer of 2021, I had time to take on another full-time internship in the corporate sector. I found inspiration through the people around me but constantly wanted more out of the work itself. That summer, I shared my frustration with Dr. Carroll. He validated my feelings and assured me that there were further opportunities I could pursue. As a student at a competitive university, I spent my time constantly comparing myself to others whose lives were mapped out on a corporate trajectory. For a long time, I thought moving up the corporate ladder or going to professional school right after college was the only path toward success. Dr. Carroll worked with me each week to process and break down stereotypes I had about the definition of success after college. Over the summer of 2021, and after many conversations with Dr. Carroll, I decided to apply for a Fulbright Student Research grant to expand upon my research from the Miller Center Fellowship. Similar to spring break during my first year in college, I felt compelled to apply to the Fulbright. My decision to apply was followed by months of pouring my heart out into application drafts that were torn apart and then meticulously rewritten. On October 12, 2021, I sat on the floor of the Into the Wild gear closet, combing over the final drafts of my application materials. The gear closet is attached to the Into the Wild office; when leaders meet in the office, I frequently descend into the gear closet for a quiet space to study; so it seemed like the best place to submit an application that had loomed over my head for the previous three months. Adrenaline surged through my veins as I pressed submit, two minutes before the deadline. After double-checking to ensure that I submitted it correctly, I slammed my laptop closed, stood up, and walked out to find my three closest friends in Into the Wild just outside the door. I felt as though I had just run a marathon. I mustered up the energy to speak the word “submitted” before I crumbled into a ball of tears in their arms. Applying for the Fulbright was the most challenging thing I have ever done––forcing me to face my vulnerabilities and weaknesses head-on, by pushing me to advocate for myself and submit an application that reflected the most authentic version of myself and my goals. Funnily enough, I sat in a meeting with those same three Into the Wild leaders who comforted me after my application submission, when I received an email on April 13, 2022. The subject read “Fulbright Application Status Update.” I trembled as I hovered my mouse over the link. When the page finally loaded, my jaw dropped as I read the words “congratulations.” I was speechless. Throughout that day, the only word I could use to describe my feelings was grateful. I am grateful for the phenomenal support system I have built at Santa Clara. Without the love and compassion I received from my friends, family, and professors throughout the application process and the time awaiting a response I would not have the capacity to take on the challenge of conducting my own research in India. As I reflect on my experience at Santa Clara, I am proud of the titles I have held, but nothing compares to the relationships I have fostered. I am grateful to be part of a community that comforts me during hardship and amplifies my successes while simultaneously challenging me to push my own boundaries. After graduation in June, I will spend the summer in Maine with my family, and on August 20, 2022, I will travel to Delhi, India to spend a year researching the impact that social enterprises have on gender perceptions and tangentially, economic development. Over the past four years, my definition of success has evolved substantially. I define success by the friends, family, and mentors who not only encourage me to reach for seemingly unattainable goals but who are also there to catch me when I fall. As I round out this extraordinary experience, I want to thank them: for giving me the platform to pursue my own goals and ambitions, for being the community I was searching for in a time when I had no direction. I want to thank them for providing me with patience and compassion, for challenging me to grow both as an individual and as part of this incredible community, and finally, for being mirrors to show me the best version of myself.