The robotics club room was tense. Our two lead programmers, Sarah and Leo, were locked in a silent war over the autonomous code. Sarah’s approach was methodical and safe; Leo’s was ambitious but risky. With our first competition just two weeks away, the team was paralyzed. As the project manager, my title meant I could have forced a decision, but I knew that would just leave one of them feeling resentful and unmotivated.

Instead, I called a meeting with just the three of us. I didn’t start by asking who was right. I asked them both to walk me through their code, explaining not just what it did, but what they were most proud of in their design. Sarah valued the reliability she had built, while Leo was excited by the innovative navigation path he’d created.

Hearing them talk, I realized the conflict wasn't about ego, but about two different kinds of passion. I suggested a new path: could we use Sarah’s stable framework as the foundation but integrate Leo’s advanced navigation for the final, high-scoring part of the run? It took a long whiteboard session, but we found a way. The final code was more robust than either of their individual versions. I learned that leadership isn't always about having the best idea or making the final call. It’s about listening long enough to understand what truly motivates people and creating a space where their combined passions can build something better.

I was never the captain of the cross-country team. I wasn’t the fastest runner, and my pre-race speeches were never going to end up in a movie. But I did notice things. I noticed how the freshmen would stand in a tight, nervous cluster before practice, too intimidated to join the upperclassmen’s conversations. I remembered feeling that exact same way three years earlier. Our coach was focused on race times, but our team culture was leaving our newest members behind.

So, I decided to do something about it. I started staying five minutes after practice to chat with the new runners, asking them about their classes and learning their names. Then, I asked my friend Jake, another senior, to help me organize an informal "secret sibling" system. We paired every freshman with an upperclassman who would leave them encouraging notes and snacks in their lockers before a big race.

It started small, but it caught on. Soon, the clear line between the older and younger runners began to blur. Our team dinners became louder, filled with more laughter. We didn’t win the state championship that year, but we had the lowest dropout rate in the team’s history. I realized leadership wasn’t about a title or being the best. It was about seeing who was being left out and taking the first step to bridge the gap.

Every October, the main hallway at school featured the same Hispanic Heritage Month display: a few faded posters of famous figures from Spain. As someone whose family is from Peru, it felt incomplete. My friends, whose families came from Colombia and El Salvador, felt the same way. We were proud of our heritage, but the display didn't reflect the diversity we represented. I decided I wanted to change it.

I approached our history teacher, Ms. Evans, with an idea: a student-curated display. She loved it and gave me the green light. I gathered a small group of friends, and we spent the next week brainstorming. Instead of just famous names, we decided to focus on stories. Each of us chose a lesser-known artist, writer, or scientist from our family’s home country and wrote a short biography to accompany their picture. We also created a map showcasing the different countries our school’s students were from.

When we put up the new display, the reaction was immediate. Students I’d never met would stop and point, saying, “That’s where my grandmother is from!” The project taught me that leadership can be about making people feel seen. It’s not just about directing a group; it’s about identifying a problem, inviting others to share their voices, and creating something together that makes your community feel more like a home for everyone.