My university experience tore apart the foundations of everything I believed in.

As a child I would often stand in the corridor staring at an old portrait of my mother. I was perplexed not by her youth, but by her stern demeanor and strange attire. In the picture, she wore a black gown and a white collaret connected to two linen bands.

An old, dough-faced woman with white-blond hair and soft, sagging limbs spots us from a distance and darts inside her home.

My heart dropped; my world collapsed. Barely discernable beyond the swirling dust and debris, a doll-sized child lay sprawled on the charred ground.

Throughout my undergraduate education, extracurricular activities, and starting my own company, I have cultivated my passion for business.

The night everything changed is permanently stitched into the fabric of my memory. I was sitting with her at the Lincoln Memorial, gazing into her beautiful brown eyes, while the shadow of the Washington Monument bounced off the Reflecting Pool in my periphery.

Alison Chase is an innovator in modern dance. Artistic director and choreographer of Pilobolus —a world-renowned dance company known for its intertwining of dance, acrobatics, and spectacle — Alison Chase has had a profound impact on the aesthetic development of modern dance.

Eighteen months ago, I viewed my career path as very divergent from that of my parents; both were attorneys, and I was a scientist. I had just entered my third year of employment at a major pharmaceutical company, and I was starting to come into my own as a medicinal chemist and making significant impacts on our drug discovery programs.

I always thought my inspiration to attend law school would come from my time in the courtroom. I never could have guessed it would come from the backseat of a police cruiser.

I arrived at Zulaa’s home as her moans of pain filled the one-room house, blood soaked the bed, and the dogs and goats outside started barking and bleating.

It wasn’t until Mihaja turned off the television that I realized I could still hear gunshots in the distance. It was the first weekend of my semester abroad in the capital city of Antananarivo, Madagascar, and the deadliest day to date of the political crisis that began just before I arrived.

I have always been determined to study subjects I am passionate about for the sake of the intellectual journey itself, rather than merely as a means to securing a place in the working world.

One night seven years ago, my mother and I sat in the car waiting for the light to change when a homeless man knocked on our window.

Like any turning point in life, senior year involves soul-searching, and I have spent many evenings reflecting on my memories at Penn. Inevitably, my mind turns to Mary.

“Hi I’m Joleen! I’m from Wisconsin! Where are you from?” trills the pretty brown-eyed girl in my dorm room. I sigh.