To be entirely candid, this is the most vulnerable thing I’ve written for this paper—breaking news stories and features about boba don’t really hold a candle to this. One of my biggest flaws is that I function on either 100% or 0%. And if I’m going to lay my heart out, I might as well go all the way.

AHS is already known for being academically competitive, for being stressful, for being incredibly privileged. It’s a system perpetuated by a predominantly wealthy, East-Asian community where going to a Top-20 school is like catching the golden Snitch. Everything is done—sacrificed—for a name. Students and parents get caught up in their relentless pursuits of a perfect narrative that will be a fast-track path to the top, whatever that is. It’s the narrative that’s touted by proponents of a “successful” high school journey whose only outcome is to get into an “elite” college.

I realize that to most people who don’t know me personally, I’m what Arcadia calls a “success story.” After all, I recognize that my own narrative fits too easily into this perception of an ideal. It’s apparent in how every class I took spurred me to join an organization, reach out to different people, and take charge of things on my own. How seemingly, everything fell into place, one step after another. I can’t even think about my journey without seeing myself sitting in front of college interviewers, gushing about how from my first step on campus, I found my way. After all, that’s the story people like to hear.

Here’s the bit people don’t want to recognize: there are a lot of things missing from that narrative.

I don’t tell people about the sheer frustration I felt when I poured my soul into a project, debating why others didn’t seem to return the same energy. I prefer not to think about my one notes document where I’ve catalogued every single mental breakdown I’ve had since the beginning of sophomore year. I often forget how stress became second nature to me, so much so that I barely noticed it. I try not to recount my terrible coping mechanisms: pushing my feelings aside to do more work. When I think about why all of this is swept under the rug, I know that it is simply because these are ugly, gaping gashes that would ruin the perfect, glorified narrative.

However, with little to do and too much time for myself, I’ve gotten to reflect on my personal narrative. In this time, I’ve recognized that I was lucky. Beyond lucky, even. Despite never really having good friends before high school, I was fortunate to have a variety of communities I could lean back on. Hobbies that I could distance myself from the real world with (is it shameful to derive serotonin from K-Pop idols or fictional characters?). Extracurriculars that provided me momentary relief, no matter how much I complained about them (swim team, this is for you). I had all of these things, and because of them, I never completely broke.

Lorde says that we spend all our time “trying to find these perfect places.” AHS is far from a perfect place. I can’t say that I regret anything I’ve done, because all the organizations I joined, responsibilities I took on, and leadership positions I stepped into were of my own choice. Yet, my experience is not one worth repeating for a 4% chance at a brand name.

Already though, I think things are changing. The district is looking increasingly at making mental health resources available to students. The stigma around community college is nowhere near as bad as it was four years ago, though it has a ways to go. To change the culture, it will take generations, but I have a seed of hope that I might be someone who could inspire something.

Sometimes, I wonder if this big cultural change is worth fighting for, even if the only weapon I have is my writing; but then, I look at all my friends who have suffered, the underclassmen who will, and I think I am ready for war.

For all that I have experienced, I know that I am nothing without the people around me—

To my parents, teachers, staff, and all those who have guided me: I hope you are able to speak of me with pride. It is only because of the support I received throughout the years that I am privileged to be in this position today. Special thanks to Mr. Wang and Mrs. Grubbs for having more confidence in me than I ever thought I deserved.

To my friends: Gretchen’s—Filbert, Michelle, Scarlet—for being that source of stability. It’s hard to believe how far we’ve come from when we met as freshman, our desire to speak being the only thing uniting us. Chelsea, Alice, and Elisha, for lunches off-campus and for vibe-checking my imposter syndrome and insecurities. As much as I like to think I can write decently well, I find it impossible to encapsulate how much you all mean to me.

To Pow Wow and especially the 67th Board: It’s been a privilege and pleasure to have been among such incredible people here. I have learned so much from all of you, and I’ve found a community unlike any other on campus. Alyssa and Brandon, I hope we can fondly look back on our experiences together and recall a time in fourth grade only I seem to remember. Room A-213, you hold my heart.

This senior column is, at worst, a garbage can of word vomit that I’ve decided to reveal, and at best, an introspective reflection of my high school journey. But there’s something to be said about my dedicating three paragraphs to giving thanks to others in a column about me: I am reminded of a quote from an ice skating anime a couple years ago: “There’s a place you just can’t reach unless you have a dream too large to bear alone.”

I dream of changing the world, as most others do. But it’s not something to be done alone. I know that with the support of all those I’ve encountered, every conversation I’ve had, all the hugs I’ve exchanged, I think that maybe I can, that I might reach that place, and maybe dream ever bigger.