My North Star

“Il faut aller voir”—Jacques Cousteau. “One must go and see.” That little phrase? It’s not just a quote for me—it’s the undercurrent of my entire life. I still remember the first time I felt the world crack open, infinite and full of promise: my LeapFrog Magic Adventures talking globe. I was six. A gift from my parents, it looked like any ordinary toy at first. But with a stylus in hand, I discovered it was so much more—a portal. One tap, and I was wandering Tokyo’s neon-lit streets; another, and I was shivering on the icy plains of Antarctica.

“King of Geography.” That’s what Ms. Seidman, my first-grade teacher, called me. At the time, it felt like a royal decree—and, honestly, I wore it like a crown. Geography wasn’t just a subject; it was my way of seeing the world.

Fast forward to fourth grade, the school auditorium, and a hot spotlight aimed directly at me. “Which large body of water is located between North America and South America?” Mr. Mosher’s voice boomed, rattling my nerves. My hands were clammy, my heart hammering like a jackhammer. “The Caribbean Sea!” I blurted, hoping for the best. “Correct!” The applause? Electric. The rush? Addictive. That moment wasn’t just a GeoBee win; it was a reminder of why I loved this—the thrill of exploring, discovering, knowing.

But let’s fast forward again, this time to sixth grade, and a moment that knocked me off my high horse. My Science Olympiad teammate, Alicia Yee, was tracing a contour line on a topographic map. “See this?” she said, pointing out a subtle curve I had completely missed. My stomach plummeted. Me, the so-called expert, blind to something so obvious. I felt my ego deflate—fast.

Yet, in that moment, I didn’t just feel embarrassed. I felt…enlightened. Alicia’s attention to detail, her patient, methodical approach, taught me something crucial: no one sees the whole picture alone. Together, analyzing maps and solving complex challenges, we made each other better. I walked away with a lot more than a medal that day. I learned the power of collaboration, of leaning on others to see what I couldn’t.

Then came high school, where my curiosity and determination collided with a world far bigger than maps or GeoBee trivia. McGill University’s simulation of the Congress of Vienna? It was as high-stakes as high school competitions get. I was Karl Philipp, Prince of Schwarzenberg, caught in the crossfire between rival delegations. Across the table, Russia’s envoy was practically breathing fire, demanding control. My voice wavered as I proposed a compromise: phased reparations, international peacekeeping, guarantees for Polish sovereignty. Days later, we had a deal—and I had a realization. Diplomacy wasn’t just about rules or speeches. It was about averting disaster and creating solutions that mattered.

And yet, life has a way of reminding me that time doesn’t stand still. My grandmother’s house always smelled of cinnamon and sunshine. Her papery hands clasped mine as that quirky cat clock on the wall ticked, its eyes darting back and forth with each second. When she passed, the silence was deafening. The clock stopped. It was the first time I truly grasped the fragility of time—and it lit a fire in me.

From childhood globes to Model UN debates, everything I’ve done has been about understanding the world and finding ways to leave my mark. Time may be finite, but the chance to explore, to learn, to make an impact? That’s infinite. And that’s what keeps me moving toward my North Star.