Every Friday, my family holds “The Weekly Roast.” The goal is simple. We find the funniest, most spectacular mistake of the week and celebrate it.

Last month, my dad won. He tried to fix the WiFi and somehow knocked out power to the whole house. We ate dinner by candlelight and roasted him for his “technical skills.” A week later, it was my turn. My brilliant chemistry experiment turned our kitchen sink a permanent shade of blue. My family gave me a standing ovation.

This tradition is important because it taught me that failure is not an end. It is a beginning. It’s the punchline to a great story. Roasting our mistakes removes their power to embarrass us. Instead, we learn to be resilient and to not take ourselves so seriously.

This ritual brings us together through laughter. Sharing our blunders in a safe space builds a unique trust. We know we are a team, united by our imperfections. This is the same spirit of community I hope to find and build upon at Boston College.

My most challenging conversation partner is a 2,000-year-old computer. It’s a lump of corroded bronze, officially known as the Antikythera mechanism. I met it through a documentary, and ever since, we have been debating one profound question: what is the true cost of forgetting?

Our conversations happen in my head as I read research papers about its intricate gears. It was an ancient Greek device that could predict eclipses and track the movement of planets. It was technology that was a thousand years ahead of its time. Then, the knowledge was lost. For over 1,500 years, nobody on Earth could build something so complex.

This idea shook me. It challenged my modern belief that progress is a constant, upward line. The Antikythera mechanism proves that knowledge can be fragile. Humanity can forget. Our conversation has taught me that our most important task is not just to innovate, but to preserve and share what we learn. I want to continue this rigorous conversation in Boston College’s Core Curriculum, where I can explore these enduring questions with my peers.

My single story was “The Coder.” After I won two local hackathons, everyone decided that was my entire personality. Teachers saw me as a future tech billionaire. My friends thought I only spoke in Python and binary code. They assumed I cared more about algorithms than people.

This story created real challenges. In English class, when I shared an idea about a character's emotional journey, the room went quiet. It was like a dog had just recited Shakespeare. In history projects, I was always assigned the role of “website guy.” My single story made me a tool, not a teammate.

To overcome this, I joined the one thing that had nothing to do with code: I directed my school’s one-act play festival. I spent a month managing schedules, mediating artistic fights between actors, and coaching them on how to deliver lines with real emotion. I showed everyone I could debug a dramatic scene just as well as a line of code.

I learned you cannot wait for people to see past your single story. You have to actively show them your other chapters.

To Boston College's Jesuit mission of being attentive, reflective, and loving, I would add a fourth 'Be': Be Still.

I learned the importance of this from astrophotography. To capture a clear image of the Orion Nebula, my camera must remain perfectly still for hours. Any tiny vibration, any gust of wind, blurs the image into nothing. My first fifty photos were just blurry smudges. I was too impatient. I failed because I could not be still.

Finally, I learned to slow down. I learned to sit with my camera, watching the stars drift across the sky. In that stillness, I became truly attentive to the world around me. It was in those quiet moments that I could be most reflective about my place in the universe.

At Boston College, I will practice being still. In a fast-paced academic environment, I will take moments to pause before I speak in class, allowing me to listen more deeply. I will find a quiet bench on Bapst Lawn to think, not just to complete an assignment. By embracing stillness, I believe I can be more present, and in turn, contribute more thoughtful and meaningful ideas to the BC community.

The societal problem I care about most is the isolation faced by children with sensory processing disorders. My younger cousin has SPD. For him, a trip to the grocery store is a nightmare. The fluorescent lights hum too loud, the checkout scanners beep like alarms, and the crowds are a chaotic storm. This experience is not just an inconvenience. It is a wall that separates him and his family from their community.

I will use my Human-Centered Engineering education to tear down that wall.

First, the humanistic perspective will guide me. At BC, I will use ethnographic methods to work directly with families and occupational therapists. I need to understand the exact sensory triggers that cause distress.

Second, my technical knowledge will provide the tools. I will use what I learn about software and wearable technology to build a "Sensory Shield." This would be a set of smart headphones connected to a wristband that monitors heart rate.

Third, creativity will bring it to life. When the wristband detects rising stress, the headphones would not just block noise. They would intelligently filter out the specific, jarring frequencies. They would create a calm, manageable auditory bubble for the child.

This project serves the Common Good by building a more inclusive world. It uses technology to open doors, not create new ones, ensuring every child can participate fully in life.