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There's a moment in portraiture that I live for: the split second when someone forgets the camera is there and their real self surfaces. A genuine laugh. A look of quiet confidence. That's when I press the shutter.

I didn't always know how to see beauty this way. Growing up, I internalized a narrow definition of what it meant to be beautiful — one that didn't include me. An unkind nickname from classmates, based on my appearance, followed me for years. I stopped raising my hand in class. I retreated from painting, from singing, from the things that made me feel alive. My true self was fading, buried under insecurity.

Moving from China to the United States, I hoped things would be different. In some ways they were. But I also saw the same quiet pressure everywhere — the comments about a girl's weight whispered just loud enough to hear, the media images that insist beauty fits only one shape. Appearance-based discrimination isn't loud. It's a slow erosion of confidence that crosses borders.

Photography changed everything. When I started taking portraits, I had to learn to really look at people — not at what society said they should look like, but at who they actually were. Light, character, strength. I started finding beauty in places I'd been taught to overlook, including in my own reflection.

I also discovered makeup — not as a mask, but as a creative medium, the way a photographer uses light and shadow. The shimmering brown eyeshadow that brightened my eyes became a small act of self-definition. Slowly, I gained the bravery to make eye contact with others, something that had been difficult for years.

Now, when I photograph someone, I'm not just composing an image. I'm offering them a version of themselves they might not have seen before — their best self, framed with intention and care. Photography taught me that beauty isn't something you earn by fitting in. It's something you reveal by looking closely enough.

I dream of opening my own photography studio one day. But lately I've been thinking about what that actually means — not just the art of taking pictures, but the art of building something.

In AP Calculus, I learned to think about optimization: finding the maximum value within constraints. In photography, I do the same thing every time I frame a shot. I have a fixed rectangle, and within it, I need to arrange elements to create the strongest possible image.

Businesses work the same way. You have limited resources — time, money, attention — and you need to arrange them to create maximum impact. The best brands understand visual storytelling instinctively. Think about how Apple uses negative space in its product design and marketing. Think about how a restaurant's plating affects your perception of taste before you take a single bite.

This past spring, when I performed in my school's production of Godspell, I experienced another version of this: the director framed every scene, every lighting choice, every entrance to guide the audience's attention. Theater is visual composition in real time.

I don't know exactly where these interests converge into a career or a major. But I'm increasingly convinced that understanding how images work — how they persuade, how they create meaning, how they build trust — is a kind of literacy that matters whether you're running a gallery, a company, or a campaign.

For now, I'm collecting the pieces. Photography gives me the eye. Math gives me the logic. And the question of what to do with both keeps me curious.