I want to combine my passion for environmental policy with data-driven analysis. Dartmouth’s Quantitative Social Science major is the perfect place for this. I am excited to take classes like “Ecology and Society” and conduct research at the Institute of Arctic Studies. Outside the classroom, I hope to write for The Dartmouth about sustainability initiatives and lead a First-Year Trip with the Outing Club. The D-Plan would allow me to pursue a winter internship in Washington D.C. Dartmouth’s unique blend of rigorous academics, tight-knit community, and connection to nature is where I see myself thriving.

I grew up in the aisles of my family’s hardware store. The environment smelled like sawdust and fresh paint, and my weekends were spent sorting screws and mixing colors for customers. It wasn’t just a store; it was the town’s problem-solving center. People came in not just for a hammer, but with a broken cabinet door, a leaky faucet, or a dream of building a treehouse. My job was to listen.

I learned to ask the right questions, not just about the size of a bolt, but about the project behind it. This taught me that every problem has a human story. A frantic search for a specific hinge was really about a mother trying to fix her daughter’s favorite dollhouse before her birthday. A debate over paint swatches was a young couple nervously trying to make their first house feel like a home. I learned to see beyond the transaction and connect with the person.

That hardware store taught me patience and empathy. It showed me that the most important tool you can offer someone is a listening ear. I carry that lesson with me, whether I am working on a group project or helping a friend. It’s the belief that to truly help, you must first understand.

I am a person of deliberate contradictions. My friends know me as the meticulous planner of our Dungeons & Dragons campaigns. I spend weeks drawing maps, developing characters with complex backstories, and outlining plot twists. Every detail is considered, every outcome anticipated. My color-coded binders are legendary. This is the me that loves order, logic, and seeing a long-term plan come together.

Then there is the me who travels. Last summer, I bought a one-way train ticket with no destination in mind. I ended up in a small coastal town I’d never heard of, simply because I liked the name. I spent two days exploring hidden beaches and talking to local fishermen, guided only by curiosity. This is the me that thrives on spontaneity and believes the best experiences are the ones you don’t plan for.

These two sides aren’t in conflict; they complete me. I am a storyteller who builds worlds with rules and structure, but I am also an adventurer who knows the most magical moments happen when you throw the map away. I find joy in both the careful plan and the happy accident. I am an organized explorer.

The design of subway maps excites me. To most, they are just tools for getting from Point A to Point B. To me, they are masterpieces of information design and human psychology. I can spend hours on my laptop, flipping between the tangled, organic web of the London Tube, the rigid, color-coded grid of the Tokyo Metro, and the sprawling, complex system of New York City. Each one is a solution to the same problem: how to make a chaotic underground world feel simple and navigable.

What excites me is the puzzle. How do you represent a three-dimensional network on a two-dimensional surface? When do you sacrifice geographical accuracy for clarity? The decision to straighten a curved line or space stations equally, even if they are miles apart in reality, is a fascinating compromise between truth and usability. It is a visual language designed to reduce anxiety and build confidence in millions of people every day.

This passion has led me to explore urban planning and human-centered design. It’s the perfect intersection of systems, art, and empathy. A great subway map isn’t just about lines and dots; it’s about understanding how people think and move. It’s about creating order from chaos, and that is a challenge that I find endlessly exciting.

During the pandemic, I watched my grandparents struggle with technology. A simple video call to see their grandkids became a source of frustration, and ordering groceries online felt impossible. I realized the digital world, meant to connect us, was leaving many of our elders behind. My impact started small: I created a series of one-page, large-print guides for them. The first was “How to FaceTime,” with simple screenshots and no jargon.

It worked. Soon, I was making guides for other residents in their retirement community. I made one for joining a Zoom book club, another for using a food delivery app, and one for streaming old movies. I held informal “tech help” sessions in the community garden, always starting by listening to their specific frustrations.

My impact isn’t about inventing new technology. It’s about making existing technology accessible. It matters because connection shouldn’t have an age limit. I hope to continue this work by studying human-centered design and public policy, focusing on creating intuitive and inclusive systems. I want to bridge the gap between innovation and the people it is meant to serve, ensuring no one gets left behind.

Reading Merlin Sheldrake’s Entangled Life fundamentally changed the way I see the world. Before, I saw a forest as a collection of individual trees competing for sunlight. After learning about mycelial networks, the vast underground fungal systems that connect trees, I now see a forest as a collaborative community. These networks allow trees to share nutrients, send warning signals about pests, and even support weaker saplings. A forest is not a battleground; it is a conversation.

This insight reshaped my understanding of community and myself. I used to believe success was a solo endeavor, a result of individual strength and competition. Sheldrake’s work showed me a different model, one based on hidden connections and mutual support. I started to see these networks everywhere: in my study group, where one person’s understanding of physics helped another with calculus, or in my family, where a quiet phone call could transfer emotional resources across miles.

I now understand that I am not just an individual, but a node in countless networks. My strengths are not just my own, but are resources I can share through unseen connections. The book taught me that the most powerful forces are often the ones we cannot see, and that true resilience is found not in standing alone, but in being deeply connected.

My grandfather and I have a Sunday morning ritual: breakfast and arguments. Last year, our topic was climate change. I came armed with scientific data, but he dismissed it, focusing on the economic harm that regulations would cause in our small fishing town. The conversation grew tense. He saw my facts as an attack on his livelihood, and I saw his view as a denial of reality. We were at a stalemate.

Instead of pushing more data, I asked him about his favorite fishing spot, a small cove he had taken me to as a kid. He talked about how the fish populations had declined over his lifetime and how the coastline had changed. I listened. I did not mention climate change. I just asked him what he thought was causing it. He talked about warmer waters and more frequent storms.

The common ground was not in the science, but in that cove. We both loved it and wanted to preserve it for my children one day. We moved from a global debate to a shared local value. We started talking about solutions not in terms of carbon taxes, but in terms of protecting our town’s future. I learned that dialogue begins not with winning an argument, but with finding a shared love for the thing you are trying to save.

My nerdy side lives in a dusty toolbox in our garage. I collect and restore old hand tools from flea markets. I am not a carpenter; I am a tool historian. When I find a rusted handsaw or a forgotten wood plane, my first step is not to sharpen it, but to research it. I will spend hours online, digging through patent archives and old catalogs to identify the maker, the year it was made, and the type of steel used.

My friends see a pile of rust, but I see a story. This Stanley No. 5 plane from the 1920s has a rosewood handle worn smooth by a craftsman’s hand. This Disston handsaw has a unique medallion that tells me it was made during World War II, when brass was being rationed. I nerd out on the physics of it all, learning how the precise 20-degree angle of a chisel blade allows it to sever wood fibers cleanly.

Restoring them is my favorite part. The slow work of removing rust, sharpening the steel, and oiling the wood feels like a conversation with the past. It has taught me to appreciate things that are built to last and to see the beauty in function and design. My nerdy passion is not just about old tools; it is about connecting with the history of human ingenuity, one piece of sharpened steel at a time.

In my family, weekends are for sports. My dad was a college quarterback, my mom was a track star, and my brother is the captain of his soccer team. I am the artist who cannot catch a ball. Growing up, I felt like a foreign exchange student in my own home. While they analyzed game footage, I was sketching in a notebook. Their language was touchdowns and personal records; mine was charcoal and perspective. This difference made me feel isolated.

For years, I tried to fit in, joining teams and quitting them just as quickly. I felt like a failure. My embrace of this difference began when I stopped trying to be like them and instead tried to connect my world to theirs. I brought my sketchbook to my brother’s soccer games. Instead of watching the ball, I started drawing the players. I focused on the tension in a defender’s legs, the grace of a goalie’s dive, the exhausted joy on their faces after a goal.

My art became a bridge. My dad did not understand my love for shading, but he understood the intensity I captured in a player’s eyes. My art allowed me to participate in the family’s passion on my own terms. It taught me that embracing your difference does not mean separating yourself. It means finding a unique way to connect. My purpose is to be that bridge, using my perspective to show people a new way of seeing the things they love.

In my sophomore year, I was determined to start a coding club for beginners. I had taught myself to code and was excited to share my passion. I put up a few flyers, booked a classroom, and expected a crowd. Three people showed up. The next week, only one came. By the third week, I was alone. The club was a complete failure.

My first instinct was to blame others. I thought people were just not interested. But the failure forced me to be honest with myself. My flyers were generic. I had not talked to anyone to see what they wanted to learn. I had assumed that my passion would be enough to attract people, but I had not done the work to build a community.

I did not relaunch the club. Instead, I started smaller. I offered to help a friend with a project for his history class, showing him how to build a simple interactive website for it. He told two friends, and soon I was holding informal tutoring sessions in the library. It was not a formal club, but it was working. I learned that leadership is not about having a title or a big launch. It is about listening, starting small, and meeting people where they are. My failure taught me a lesson my success never could have: before you can teach, you have to learn how to serve.