Sandbox + Career
When I was younger, I loved to play in the small sandbox on our porch. A beach shovel in one hand and a plastic bucket in the other, I became a one-woman construction crew. In the sandbox, I had the ability to turn a lifeless desert into anything I wanted.
My adventures in the sand showed me that details are powerful. I once spent an entire afternoon meticulously carving over one hundred individual bricks onto a castle’s turrets. Another time, I spent an hour crawling through the backyard, scouring for the perfect stick (2.5 inches, barkless, small taper) to mount the castle’s flag. Caked with mud from the search, I triumphantly placed the stick atop the watchtower, transforming my castle into one worthy of Arthur himself. From days like those, I learned that details bring a creation to life.
Though the sandbox was left behind years ago, my attention to detail continued to evolve. At six, I entered the world of gymnastics. Since that first day in the gym, I’ve recognized that noticing the little things, like the slight, ever present haze of chalk in the air or the annoying itch from the tags in new leotards, actually helps me focus. Being aware of every aspect of myself and my surroundings allows me to control the smallest changes. The balance beam taught me that a few millimeters can mean the difference between a perfect landing and a nasty beam burn. Nights spent with ice packs after the latter showed how small changes can have destructive consequences.
But ultimately, from years spent doing back handsprings, flyaways, and giants, I’ve realized that gymnastics isn’t that different from the sandbox. During competition, seemingly minuscule details matter as bent legs and flexed feet result in deductions. From a routine’s opening pose to its final salute, my hands should always be outstretched, thumb and middle finger pointed slightly inward. Having “pretty” hands adds a layer of energy and passion to the routine to captivate the audience more. After eight competition seasons, I’ve gained an appreciation for the way subtle changes can allow for deeper engagement with others.
The emotional resonance of finger placement took on a different meaning when I was introduced to the world of piano. From playing the softest pianissimo to the loudest fortissimo, I’ve learned the significance dynamics have on a performance. At recitals, I’ve seen that even simple differences in posture and tone can express drastically different moods. I remember listening to a younger student play Clair de Lune, a piece I had previously performed. Expecting to hear the same piece, I was surprised by the nuanced crescendos she added and the way she swayed with the melody. I realized how different the same piece could be. I love learning from how other people interpret a piece and incorporate their attitude into a performance.
After taking a programming class in freshman year, I was fascinated with how simple lines of text could create so much more. Finally, entering the world of computer science was like getting to play in the sandbox again, but this time, I’ll be using code to bring my programs to life. Just as a few millimeters makes a difference on the beam, one missing semicolon, brace, or period means the difference between a perfectly running program and an error. I hope to explore how written code can create software that interacts with and engages users’ emotions and thoughts. From playing piano, I’ll know to turn to others when I need help, because everyone interprets code in their own way and can offer a new perspective on the problem. When I’m programming, I have the power to create anything within the bounds of the computer.
In the future, I’ll be trading my shovel in for a keyboard, and the one-woman construction crew I was before will be replaced by a creative and constructive member of a team.