The first time I heard Jacob Collier’s music, my brain felt like it short-circuited. It wasn't just the complex harmonies; it was the architecture of the sound. I spent the next month with a notebook open, trying to deconstruct a single chord from his arrangement of "Moon River." I wasn't just listening; I was mapping it, drawing diagrams to connect the microtonal shifts and tracing the bassline as it defied every rule I had learned.

That chord taught me that music isn't just a set of rules to be followed, but a system to be explored, broken, and rebuilt. It’s this analytical curiosity—this desire to understand the "why" behind the harmony—that I want to bring to a music theory program. I don’t just want to play music; I want to take it apart and discover what makes it work.

I was the quietest member of my jazz combo. For months, I played my bass lines perfectly. I never missed a note, but I never took a risk. Then came the day our saxophonist got sick before a competition. Our teacher looked at me and said, "You're taking the solo." Panic set in. A solo wasn’t just about playing the right notes; it was about having something to say.

That night, instead of practicing scales, I listened to the way Miles Davis used silence and Jaco Pastorius told a story. When I stepped on stage the next day, I was terrified. But as the band quieted, I took a breath and played. It wasn't perfect, but it was mine. That two-minute solo taught me more than two years of lessons. It taught me that my voice matters, and that true growth happens the moment you step beyond the written notes.