This essay explores how standing behind the camera helped me develop perspective, empathy, and curiosity that later shaped my passion for engineering
The class photo simply didn't even include me. I was behind the camera as usual so I adjusted the angle and I waited for everyone to stop talking until I made sure no one blinked. Later, I noticed things others missed when I viewed those pictures: my best friend's nervous half-smile, two hands locked together privately, a quiet sigh from someone in back.
I am comfortable when I stand behind things. At first, I deemed it made me... disregarded. I rarely volunteer for those group projects. Leading was something I avoided. I often let others speak first in debates. I preferred small tasks over standing in the spotlight even when helping organize events.
Something that I came to realize slowly, however. A different kind of view came from standing just behind. I was watching as others focused on performing well. I came to notice the patterns as well as caught all of the details. Therefore, I pieced together at the bigger picture.
That perspective then followed inside the classroom. One summer I delivered supplies as a volunteer to impoverished families. As we moved boxes down a tight alley, my shirt stuck to my back. The day was humid. I did stay back holding onto the camera when the team did pose for photos afterward. I caught sight of a man there on the doorstep by way of the lens. He was sitting there clutching a bag of rice as if it was the most precious thing in the world. "Thank you" was whispered while his lips trembled.
He probably didn't even notice me, yet I felt a bond to him beyond photographs alone. Standing behind doesn't have to mean being detached: that was only when it clicked. It sometimes lets anyone see emotions more deeply up front.
That moment stayed with me. I began to realize that what I noticed through the camera was true elsewhere too-how quiet, hidden parts can hold everything together. I felt curious about objects. I also felt curious about people. One late night, I caught myself staring at my laptop. I had been working on homework. This tiny machine, a box of circuits, could run perfectly? Online, I did a search and opened it up, discovering that "chip" became more fascinating while I read. Here was a device no more than my fingernail. Everything was controlled by this quiet device. I saw myself within it somehow: silent, but important, yet unseen.
Then came the 152-page datasheet. It seemed like some foreign tongue initially. Symbols, graphs, and voltage curves filled the detailed language. I almost closed it in frustration. I opened tutorial videos, paused every few seconds, cross-referenced each diagram, and scribbled marginal notes. I learned about an unexpected sort of thing somewhere between page 75 and 100: persistence isn't just about working harder. It is about learning how to learn.
That's when my brain started connecting the dots. Delivering supplies? A distribution system existed. Taking group photos? Emotions mapping offered a path. Microchips processing signals? An electronic control system. I noticed more and more as I stood behind the quiet systems shaping the world without anyone realizing it-the hidden structures beneath everyday life.
Electrical Engineering draws me in. The visible world is powered by silent systems where everything works because of unseen signals and tiny components. One day I hope I can design systems that make life easier, safer, or more connected-almost invisible for people using them, whether they notice that fact or not.
Standing in the back used to mean being invisible, I thought. Now I've learned it means seeing what others miss-quiet details, overlooked connections, untold stories. I don't need to be in the frame to change what's in it. Maybe, in the way that the chip did, an impact is made even without any spotlight.
The class photo simply didn't even include me. I was behind the camera as usual so I adjusted the angle and I waited for everyone to stop talking until I made sure no one blinked. Later, I noticed things others missed when I viewed those pictures: my best friend's nervous half-smile, two hands locked together privately, a quiet sigh from someone in back.
I am comfortable when I stand behind things. At first, I deemed it made me... disregarded. I rarely volunteer for those group projects. Leading was something I avoided. I often let others speak first in debates. I preferred small tasks over standing in the spotlight even when helping organize events.
Something that I came to realize slowly, however. A different kind of view came from standing just behind. I was watching as others focused on performing well. I came to notice the patterns as well as caught all of the details. Therefore, I pieced together at the bigger picture.
That perspective then followed inside the classroom. One summer I delivered supplies as a volunteer to impoverished families. As we moved boxes down a tight alley, my shirt stuck to my back. The day was humid. I did stay back holding onto the camera when the team did pose for photos afterward. I caught sight of a man there on the doorstep by way of the lens. He was sitting there clutching a bag of rice as if it was the most precious thing in the world. "Thank you" was whispered while his lips trembled.
He probably didn't even notice me, yet I felt a bond to him beyond photographs alone. Standing behind doesn't have to mean being detached: that was only when it clicked. It sometimes lets anyone see emotions more deeply up front.
That moment stayed with me. I began to realize that what I noticed through the camera was true elsewhere too-how quiet, hidden parts can hold everything together. I felt curious about objects. I also felt curious about people. One late night, I caught myself staring at my laptop. I had been working on homework. This tiny machine, a box of circuits, could run perfectly? Online, I did a search and opened it up, discovering that "chip" became more fascinating while I read. Here was a device no more than my fingernail. Everything was controlled by this quiet device. I saw myself within it somehow: silent, but important, yet unseen.
Then came the 152-page datasheet. It seemed like some foreign tongue initially. Symbols, graphs, and voltage curves filled the detailed language. I almost closed it in frustration. I opened tutorial videos, paused every few seconds, cross-referenced each diagram, and scribbled marginal notes. I learned about an unexpected sort of thing somewhere between page 75 and 100: persistence isn't just about working harder. It is about learning how to learn.
That's when my brain started connecting the dots. Delivering supplies? A distribution system existed. Taking group photos? Emotions mapping offered a path. Microchips processing signals? An electronic control system. I noticed more and more as I stood behind the quiet systems shaping the world without anyone realizing it-the hidden structures beneath everyday life.
Electrical Engineering draws me in. The visible world is powered by silent systems where everything works because of unseen signals and tiny components. One day I hope I can design systems that make life easier, safer, or more connected-almost invisible for people using them, whether they notice that fact or not.
Standing in the back used to mean being invisible, I thought. Now I've learned it means seeing what others miss-quiet details, overlooked connections, untold stories. I don't need to be in the frame to change what's in it. Maybe, in the way that the chip did, an impact is made even without any spotlight.
