In my final semester of college, I realized for the first time that I did not know what I wanted out of my future. My life up to that point had been determined by the expectations of others, but I decided shortly after graduation that I was going to make a choice that was completely my own. To the shock of my friends and family, I decided to enlist in the United States Marine Corps, which pulled me in by promising a lifestyle entirely unlike my time as a finance student: a constant striving toward service with honor. Whereas other branches’ recruiters promised enlistment bonuses and perks, my Marine recruiter proffered only one incentive: the opportunity to earn the title of United States Marine. I originally signed up to become a part of the infantry, believing it would provide me the sense of purpose of which I had long been deprived. When, at boot camp, I met my fellow recruits, it dawned on me that nearly all of us had enlisted for the same reason: we were lost in life and had something—though we knew not what—to prove. For the first time, I found myself among comrades. At all hours, we lived under the constant haranguing of our drill instructors, whose mantra was “scream loud and move fast.” The orchestrated chaos of boot camp took its toll on people. In the final weeks, when a shoulder injury I’d sustained weeks earlier worsened, I was dropped back about a month in training as people who had become my brothers and sisters went on to complete boot camp. Insult compounded injury as I lost my infantry contract; my future job was going to be whatever the Marine Corps wanted it to be. I was devastated, again entirely uncertain about what my future would hold. However, as my training resumed its unrelenting pace, I redoubled my pursuit of purpose, subordinating my self-doubt to the orders of my drill instructors. After three grueling months, I earned the title of United States Marine, soon learning that I was to become a Legal Services Support Specialist. I felt optimistic, as I had developed an intellectual interest in law by studying political theory. I began in legal assistance. As my work ranged from helping a young Marine who had been scammed by a local car dealership to ensuring the legal security of a widow’s estate, I came to appreciate how the law touched diverse aspects of people’s lives. But when my time in legal assistance ended, I was told that I would be moving to the Trial Services Office (the prosecution office, TSO). I was revulsed. I viewed Marine prosecutors with distaste; tasked with judicially cannibalizing their brothers and sisters, they were Marines only in name. One of the first cases I worked revolved around a person accused of possessing and distributing Child Sexual Assault Material (CSAM, i.e., child pornography). In part, my responsibilities involved reading over and organizing the evidence, which included logs of the accused’s online chats. One thread in particular nauseated me: the accused had messaged another account that he hoped his pregnant girlfriend would have a baby girl, as he could then sexually abuse her. Before the guilty-plea hearing (the “guilty dive”), I felt—for the first time in a long time—visceral rage. Nonetheless, as the guilty dive commenced, I was momentarily disarmed by the accused’s attire: he was wearing neatly pressed Service Charlies. I had the same khaki shirt and green trousers in my closet. He had gone through many of the same trying and meaningful experiences I had. Despite my disgust, I could not help but feel a measure of sympathy for this Marine. I learned during sentencing that he had come to the Corps from a broken home, hoping to better his family’s life. Like me, he had joined because he was lost and had something to prove. After the guilty dive, when the Marine was sentenced, I sat numbly at my workstation, trying unsuccessfully to reconcile my overwhelming angst with the modicum of sympathy I felt. However, a discussion I had with my boss in the TSO helped me contextualize the contradictions I was feeling. Contravening the heavy-handed prosecutor who had preceded him, he argued that the role of the prosecutor is not to mindlessly seek convictions but to effect justice. Through our conversation, I came to understand a prosecutor’s duty as guided by a humane disposition—one that demands empathy for the accused—and to see that the diametrical forces of empathy and outrage could work in tandem. Realizing that the sense of solemn purpose imbued in me by the cases I worked was what I had searched for since college, I now harbor the ultimate goal of becoming a prosecutor. Within my office, we had an unofficial motto that I came to internalize: “Who will watch the watchers themselves?” We not only ensured that Marines didn’t fight next to those who could have compromised warfighting efficiency and undermined good order and discipline but also protected and held accountable those who watched over our country. In attending law school and working toward becoming a civilian prosecutor, I hope to broaden the impact I can have on the legal system and act more directly on behalf not only of my country but of its individual civilians, contributing to a system that aspires toward just consideration for all.

As Manchester, England, sets its sights on a future of machine-based manufacturing, I am pleased to introduce a new machine: the Self-Acting Mule. The Self-Acting Mule that I have created is unique in that it does not require the hand of a skilled laborer; it is a fully powered machine and is ready to act on its own to produce thread of remarkable quality. As we as a society enter into a period of economic transition based on large-scale industry, I am certain that modern technology will bring a vast array of advantages to the table for Manchester society as a whole. I never could have anticipated that a seemingly eccentric class assignment in an Ethics, Technology and Violence course would become the catalyst for my decision to pursue a legal education and career in international law. This assignment was a two-week, in-class simulation titled “Rage Against the Machine: Technology, Rebellion, and the Industrial Revolution.” This simulation afforded our class the opportunity to delve into the social, ethical, and political ramifications of rapid technological change on a more personal level, as we assumed the role of a historical character from 19th-century Manchester, England, impacted by the transforming textile industry. As players of this “game,” we were faced with different choices on how to go about our lives at the onset of the Industrial Revolution. I took on the role of Richard Roberts, a wheelwright; I was a member of the craftsman faction and the working class. My position within this simulation was unique, in that in 1824, I had invented the machine that would transform the Manchester economy, the “Self-Acting Mule.” What our class saw throughout the simulation was that while this and other technologies promised national prestige and increased capital, they also completely shifted the economic base of numerous countries; these advancements were seen as destructive to the livelihoods of working-class individuals employed in cottage industries, as their jobs were taken away in the process. After the simulation had ended, I took some time to think about why my teacher might have had us participate in this “game.” What I came to understand was that the ambivalence our characters felt about the advanced technology in the 19th century has parallels to present times. More specifically, the presence of AI, drones, and other autonomous systems in the 21st century, though beneficial in some respects, has the potential to shift the cognitive frameworks of international relations and international conflict, especially if there is no international code of conduct or law that regulates these advancements. I explored these questions further in the final research paper I wrote for this course, in which I did a deep dive into the ethics of the weaponized use of unoccupied aerial vehicles (drone warfare) for targeted killings in the Middle East during the Obama administration. I argued that principles of the just-war tradition, a code of military ethics which sets forth a framework for war-like conduct that is considered morally justifiable, were violated in many cases of this administration’s drone practices in the Middle East. This is concerning because violations of just-war principles by a global superpower weaken existing laws and traditions. I concluded that it is necessary that changes be made to these existing principles of war in order to accommodate new technology. I also argued for the development of an international code of conduct for armed drones. Otherwise, the continued application of drones may lead to more widespread assassinations and a future of violent conflict between state and non-state actors. Because technological advancements like AI are so new and unprecedented, there are limited laws in place to protect humans from the potential violence of this technology. The first international resolution regarding AI was only adopted by the UN in March 2024. The strong parallels between the simulation in my politics class and today’s technological developments have motivated me to pursue a career in international law to contribute to the legal field in a way that protects humans and limits harm globally from this ever-evolving technology. My desire for a career in international law is deeply rooted in my academic pursuits. I have always been fascinated by geopolitics and the ways in which countries interact with one another on a global stage; my coursework on topics of US foreign policy in the Middle East, international law, and ethics, including the “Rage Against the Machine” simulation, reaffirmed these interests. I am drawn to the realization that my work as an international lawyer will directly contribute to fostering peaceful relations between sovereign states and promote justice on a global scale

My freshman-year RA famously imposed a bespoke curfew on me, not for late-night partying but for my laugh. Variously described as a “female Santa Claus” and “a tea kettle on the brink of explosion,” my distinctive chortle was apparently loud enough to jolt nearby innocents from their slumber. My roommates recommended a lenient sentence: no “Annie laughs” after 11 p.m. As the semester progressed, however, neighbors who’d valued quiet now sought greater connection: what had once kept them awake began to draw them in. Whether over board-game chaos, impromptu guitar sing-alongs, or “emergency” 2 a.m. cookie runs, we laughed until tears streamed down our faces—the soundtrack to our late-night talks and silly moments. I now carry that laughter into Alva Belmont Place, where I volunteer with women and children seeking emergency shelter from domestic abuse. Tutoring the kids inevitably devolves into spontaneous giggling—a small reclamation of childhoods that have been disrupted. In environments where levity feels like a rare commodity, laughter can defy seemingly insurmountable circumstances. This work is deeply personal: in high school, I was a victim of sexual abuse, so I understand the feelings of helplessness that induce silence. Volunteering at Alva Belmont lends my voice to women who aren’t yet able to speak out. Sexual abuse violated my bodily integrity and personal boundaries; consequently, I was initially drawn to improve health and restore dignity via bioengineering. My design projects—prosthetics for enhanced mobility, voice-dictated wheelchairs, and skin-tone inclusive pulse oximeters—prove that solutions transcend functionality. Empowering mobility-challenged patients restores their independence; dignifying diverse patients affirms their value. I’m therefore driven to serve marginalized populations by pursuing not only thoughtful individual care but also systemic solutions that address broader inequities. When Tuft’s Shelter Health Program received an unprecedented $100,000 grant to address Boston’s health disparities, I embraced the chance to secure critical resources for patient populations like our Alva Belmont community. My initiative, however, met formidable roadblocks. While shelters were eager to collaborate, most couldn’t afford the steep liability insurance required to keep a free clinic operational. Legal complexities surrounding vaccines, prescriptions, and blood testing outside traditional settings discouraged physicians and overwhelmed well-meaning volunteers. Some, frustrated by endless  Personal Statement bureaucratic entanglements, gave up entirely. Legal obstacles distanced me from the communities I’d pledged to serve; quality time with shelter guests capitulated to perpetual waiting games, sterile partnership pitches, and monotonous board meetings where empathy felt like an afterthought. Realizing that administrative solutions alone weren’t enough, we broadened our approach to address linguistic and cultural barriers. I began learning business and medical Spanish and Chinese, opening doors to new patient populations rich in soul-invigorating laughter. My loud, uncontainable laughter often served as the first bridge, breaking down barriers and creating space for joy. Dancing with children and strolling with the elderly, I assisted with Medicaid registrations, locating prescription sites, and navigating housing court. I ensured medical information accuracy while promoting the comprehensibility of critical health issues. My work spans STEM, public health, and law, integrating them to better serve my ever expanding communities. While insurance companies’ protracted negotiations held funds hostage, I enlisted a team of law students to conduct a pro bono analysis of SHOP’s operations. Dissecting our financials and compliance procedures uncovered inefficiencies we hadn’t even considered; their creative interpretation of regulations expanded our possibilities. The law wasn’t just a set of arcane rules; it represented another framework to restore joy, dignity, and healing into our care delivery. Managing this grant revealed how legal hurdles circumscribe health workers’ operations. Lawyers socially engineer those boundaries—and I knew I wanted to be one of them. As I pursue a career intersecting healthcare and law, I’m compelled to merge my passions for advocacy and patient-centered innovations. I’ve witnessed firsthand how people transform after receiving the support they need—whether inclusive, accessible solutions or sharing laughter to break the silence. My transition into law is not just a professional one: it is the next step in my life’s work to implement tangible, lasting change. Whether addressing the complexities of domestic violence, advocating for children in special education, or navigating Medicaid appeals, I am committed to pairing legal expertise with my ability to form genuine connections with the people I serve. Laughter may not solve everything, but it does open doors—and I believe becoming a lawyer will allow me to fling those doors open wide.

About six weeks into my first legal internship, my office-mate gestured at the window—we were seventy stories high in the Chrysler Building—and said, with a sad smile, doesn’t this office just make you want to jump? The firm appeared to be falling apart. The managing partners were suing each other, morale was low, and my boss, in an effort to maintain his client base, had instructed me neither to give any information to nor take any orders from other attorneys. On my first day of work, coworkers warned me that the firm could be “competitive,” which seemed to me like a good thing. I considered myself a competitive person and enjoyed the feeling of victory. This, though, was the kind of competition in which everyone lost. Although I felt discouraged about the legal field after this experience, I chose not to give up on the profession, and after reading a book that featured the U.S. attorney’s office for the Southern District of New York, I sent in an internship application. Shortly after, I received an offer to work at the office. For my first assignment, I attended a hearing in the federal courthouse. As I entered the magnificent twenty-third-floor courtroom, I felt the gravitas of the issue at hand: the sentencing of a terrorist. That sense of gravitas never left me, and visiting the courtroom became my favorite part of the job. Sitting in hearings amidst the polished brass fixtures and mahogany walls, watching attorneys in refined suits prosecute terror, cybercrime, and corruption, I felt part of a grand endeavor. The spectacle enthralled me: a trial was like a combination of a theatrical performance and an athletic event. If I’d seen the dark side of competition at my first job, now I was seeing the bright side. I sat on the edge of my seat and watched to see if good—my side—triumphed over evil—the defense. Every conviction seemed like an unambiguous achievement. I told my friends that one day I wanted to help “lock up the bad guys.” It wasn’t until I interned at the public defender’s office that I realized how much I’d oversimplified the world. In my very first week, I took the statement of a former high school classmate who had been charged with heroin possession. I did not know him well in high school, but we both recognized one another and made small talk before starting the formal interview. He had fallen into drug abuse and had been convicted of petty theft several months earlier. After finishing the interview, I wished him well. The following week, in a courtroom that felt more like a macabre DMV than the hallowed halls I’d seen with the USAO, I watched my classmate submit his guilty plea, which would allow him to do community service in lieu of jail time. The judge accepted his plea and my classmate mumbled a quiet “thank you.” I felt none of the achievement I’d come to associate with guilty pleas. In that court, where hundreds of people trudged through endless paperwork and long lines before they could even see a judge, there were no good guys and bad guys—just people trying to put their lives back together. A year after my internship at the public defender’s office, I read a profile of Preet Bharara, the U.S. attorney for the Southern District of New York, and my former boss. In the profile, he says, “You don’t want a justice system in which prosecutors are cowboys.” The more I saw at the public defender’s office, the more I rethought my experience at the USAO. When I had excitedly called my parents after an insider trading conviction, I had not thought of the defendant’s family. When I had cheered the conviction of a terrorist, I hadn’t thought about the fact that a conviction could not undo his actions. As I now plan on entering the legal profession—either as a prosecutor or public defender—I realize that my enthusiasm momentarily overwrote my empathy. I’d been playing cowboy. A lawyer’s job isn’t to lock up bad guys or help good guys in order to quench a competitive thirst—it’s to subsume his or her ego in the work and, by presenting one side of a case, create a necessary condition for justice.

I’ve always been fascinated with workplace cultures. People who have seemingly nothing in common, who would not interact outside of the office, discover their similarities in a breakroom. I grew up in Ames, Iowa, surrounded, yes, by cornfields, but also with all the benefits of a college town: an actually functional public transit system, friends whose parents came from as far away as Indonesia to obtain a graduate degree, and hipster coffee shops. I thought this rather idyllic upbringing exposed me to different viewpoints, but it wasn’t until my job at a local movie theater that I got to know the kids who grew up in the small towns outside of mine: the kids who had ‘bring your tractor to school’ days and maybe not-so lovingly referred to my town as the ‘People’s Republic of Ames.’ Over eight-hour weekend shifts, we sold extra buttery popcorn paired with stale candy, fought the never-ending lines that wrapped around the building for every new Marvel movie, and discussed our political beliefs. It was 2016, and tensions were high, but I was learning how to focus on similarities with people I was predisposed to disagree with. Moving to Washington, D.C. to work full-time at the Howard Institute marked the first time that I lived somewhere other than my hometown. I had consistently held jobs since I was old enough to work, but I had never worked a job like this before, where the institution was older than my grandparents and seemingly everyone hailed from an Ivy League background. In fact, I was told that I should put my education section at the bottom of my resume when applying, “since some D.C. employers might be turned off by an applicant who went to a state school.” When, six months after starting the job, it was announced we were returning to the office, I was unsure how I would fit in. And yet, my coworkers had all moved during the pandemic and were equally desperate to make friends. Once again embracing the social power of the workplace, I began organizing weekly happy hours on our mandated in-office day. Slowly, I began to introduce my colleagues to the wonderful world of Big Ten football in a tiny ‘Midwest-style’ bar and the joy of washing down Detroit style pizza and Chicago hotdogs with Malört. In turn, they introduced me to Premier League soccer, the bitter Patriots–Eagles rivalry, and the tradition of Burns Night meals they picked up when they went abroad for ‘uni.’ Where I’d feared I might not fit in, I soon found myself at the center of a new, hybrid workplace culture with my coworkers as my closest friends. When I heard that my union was looking for more members on the bargaining team, I jumped at the chance and, less than a year later, was elected our first union president. At the age of 24, I was tasked with representing a third of our ancient institution, from research staff just stopping for a two-year stint on their way to their top PhD programs, to near-retirement librarians who came on during the Reagan years. My task was complicated, but my goal was simple: to turn our positive workplace culture into an institution that could represent often competing interests. Even after doing this for two years, I still sometimes feel odd telling people who are so well-respected in their fields how things should be run differently, but I feel confident that I set up a system that could advocate for all of our members’ interests. It’s ironic that so much of my work life has been about finding common ground with people from different backgrounds, and yet a core part of my job is studying what might be the world’s both most important and most dysfunctional workplace. I love Congress—it’s fascinating how 435 representatives and 100 senators come together for ostensibly the same goal and yet devolve into partisan bickering and backstabbing. My desire to understand the rules and procedures that shape and restrict legislators’ behavior—the why behind why a given approach is taken or a certain issue that seemingly has broad support is left on the cutting room floor—initially drew my interest towards law. It was the combination of my research background and experience as union president that made me aware of the profound importance administrative law plays in the implementation of legislation. With my background in congressional research, I always thought the real fight was in getting something passed. It wasn’t until I ratified my first union contract and found myself disagreeing with management over how to interpret a particular provision that I learned how much work goes into turning the written word into reality. From there, my interest in how agencies implement legal statutes has grown. I’m particularly fascinated with case studies where decision-makers follow a process with good intentions but end up astray and unable to meet their goal, such as when grants from an infrastructure bill go unused because of overburdensome requirements. With my strong focus on the culture of institutions, I see administrative law as a perfect way for me to engage with the policy process. I have heard that, as a lawyer, it can sometimes feel like you live at work, but in my eyes that isn’t necessarily a bad thing.