If you had known me as a kid, you would have known that I was always either reading a book, or trying to write my own. You would have found me hidden behind the thick bamboo that grew in my childhood home’s backyard, seated on the squeaky swing of my dilapidated play-set. I would have my faithful red clipboard in hand, where I stacked sheets of cheese-doodle-stained loose-leaf paper to write my stories on.
When I got to high school, I was still actively reading and writing, whether it was writing for English class, my journal, or myself. For myself, I wrote poems and short stories that were either just for fun, or that served as a sort of emotional catharsis that got me through those rough mid-teenaged years.
At the same time, I started to become very interested in the sciences, namely physics, which I took in my last two years of high school. Inspired by my teacher, enamored with the subject, and impressed (and a bit surprised) with my performance in the class, I decided to go into college as a physics major.