Competition Trish

For the first three years of high school, I spent most of my time being Just Trish. I drank coffee with my mom while lounging in my dad’s old hoodie, shared Japanese techno music with my friends, and spent my lunch period with my teachers, discussing everything from current events to 90s TV shows, my thick, aqua-colored glasses fogged up by my soup.

But one Saturday a month, I would transform. I tucked my green sweater into my green satin skirt. I swiped on emerald eyeshadow and three coats of mascara. I swapped out the nerd glasses for contact lenses. I laced up my sneakers with dragon patches on the side. I became: Competition Trish.

My alter-ego was intense. Competition Trish reviewed her book of algorithms in concentrated silence, and typed with intense speed. She sat alone, unsmiling, and didn’t invite conversation. She coded to win.

My costume-ish uniform and cold demeanor started out as a shield. The day before my first competition, I was nervous about being one of a few girls in a room full of boys, just as I’d been in my computer science class at school. The times I’d tried and failed to make friends in my coding class, or to collaborate with my classmates had discouraged me. I worried that the nagging feeling that I didn’t fit in would be a distraction. So I decided that this time, I wouldn’t even try. Competition Trish may have stuck out like a sore thumb, but that was my choice, and it made me feel powerful.

I did well in that first competition, so I brought her back. Every Saturday, she would sit on the bus alone, emitting don’t-talk-to-me vibes to her teammates. But it never felt quite right, because Competition Trish stands in such sharp contrast to the kind, friendly person that I am.

During free periods, I tutor students who struggle with math and science concepts. When they’re lost on a worksheet, I’m patient and encouraging. When they finally understand how to solve it, I’m cheerfully proud. I’ve learned that different students have different needs; much like in a coding competition, when every problem requires a different approach, in tutoring, I have to adapt my teaching style to each individual.

At night, after I’ve finished my homework, you can often find me embroidering and cross-stitching gifts for my friends and family. I agonize over finding the perfect pattern for each person, and I spend hours creating them, stitch by stitch. But it’s a labor of love, because being able to give something unique to my friends is a way for me to show how much I value them.

Still, Competition Trish persisted, standing out in her verdant outfit and heavy makeup. It wasn’t until I attended my first all-female coding competition that I realized I didn’t have to pretend to be someone else; I didn’t have to hide my femininity or wear it like armor. I thought I had become okay with often being in the minority, but the truth is, I had just gotten used to being uncomfortable. The day I walked into that computer lab full of girls—even in my wacky getup—I finally felt like I belonged, and accepted for who I was.

Now, when I go to coding competitions, I still dress in green, but only because green is my favorite color. I wear makeup not to stand out, but because I love my marshmallow-scented lipstick. And my unfriendly vibe and steely stare are gone. When I’m on the bus, I sit with my teammates, and at competitions, I’m as gregarious as I am when I’m laughing over K-pop memes with my friends. I still try my hardest to win, but I’m approachable. I’ve learned that my competitiveness and my kindness don’t have to be kept separate from each other. I can be someone in which they coexist, no matter where I am.