Dayton Literary Peace Prize Essay Contest

Growing up shuttling between my father's orderly suburban home and my mother's chaotic, Thai-infused apartment, I often felt like a chameleon—adapting but never fully belonging. At Dad's, dinners were precise, conversations clipped, jokes landing like lead balloons. Once, I quipped about a cousin's awkward moves, and the table froze; I learned to swallow my words, editing myself into silence. At Mom's, life exploded in colors: crayons strewn like confetti, the air thick with pad thai and laughter from family Zoom calls to Bangkok. But even there, my halting Thai marked me as the outsider, stares in bustling markets reminding me of my Americaness. These worlds clashed inside me, breeding quiet resentments—why couldn't they see each other's value?

In high school, during creative writing class, I poured this tension onto the page. I wrote a short story about a girl split between homes: one a sterile clock, the other a vibrant bazaar. She invents a hybrid ritual—a family meal blending casserole with Thai flavors—to force her parents to taste each other's lives. It was fiction, but raw with me. Hesitant, I shared it with my parents. Mom read it first, chuckling at the exaggerated chaos of her kitchen, then tearing up at the loneliness I described. "I didn't know it felt like that for you," she said, pulling me into a hug. Dad, ever reserved, emailed back: "Your words made me see her world differently. Maybe we try that casserole next visit?" For once, they talked—not about custody logistics, but memories, regrets, and the flavors they'd missed. It didn't erase the divorce’s scars, but it catalyzed dialogue, softening edges that chafed for years.

This experience spilled over into my volunteering at a food pantry, where I witnessed migrant families wrestling with English forms, their frustration boiling into tears or withdrawn defeat. Inspired and energized, I didn’t just translate; I helped create Spanish intake forms and organized volunteer interpreters at pantries, fixes that helped families eat despite bureaucratic walls. Shared at community meetings, these efforts humanized data, prompting actual dialogue. A skeptical donor said, “Your work changed my view. Let’s fund more interpreters.”

Empathy, kindled by language, drove impact.

Writing matters because it gives shape to experience and replaces assumptions with specificity. A story asks a reader to inhabit one life for a moment; in that moment, stereotypes fracture. For peacebuilding and conflict resolution, that is powerful: policies shift when people see faces, not data points; conversations change when people discover common needs instead of clinging to differences.

I believe in the power of writing to weave threads of understanding across divides, turning conflict into connection and isolation into shared humanity.

My belief is simple: when we tell our truths honestly and listen to others' truths in return, we rewrite the stories dividing us. One page at a time, we replace isolation with understanding—and that is the first step toward peace.

Words are more than just ink on paper; they are an invitation into the thoughts, feelings, and opinions of another human being. Each word has value and meaning, offering a chance to connect through experiences that can transcend cultural barriers. When a person shares their life experiences through a composition, the reader becomes a guest in their home, a passenger on their adventure, or the bystander at the most important moments in their lives. It is through the writing and discovery of new voices and perspectives that develop a deeper understanding of others with a different path traveled.

I grew up in a village that was predominantly white community where church was not just a place of worship; it was ideologies that shaped the way of life for everyone. It gave unspoken rules of what was considered acceptable and what was not. Anything that was not thought to be “traditional” ways of living such as the molded idea of only man and women marriages was considered not just wrong, but shameful. It was never something that was talked about unless you reference the whispers of gossip and judgement. For a long time, I carried the weight of my upbringing, holding me captive between my true self and my upbringing. It was not until I got older that I was able to explore the community that I felt so connected to but found myself always feeling doubtful and uncertain that I would belong. I began to unlearn my personal bias as I read books, poems, essays and personal blogs.  It was stories of people who loved differently, lived freely, and found joy in being their authentic selves. These weren’t stories of shame but stories of love, acceptance, and belonging. While I didn’t know the authors personally but found connections to them. Their stories made me feel seen.

While every experience is uniquely yours and yours alone, the situation could be relatable to another causing them to understand your way of thinking, because it has become relatable through a shared common experience. Writing your life down for others to read a piece of a story that may seem unimportant to you, however, that writing may be relatable or even inspiring to someone else that has seen the world through a different personal or cultural lens. Your story could change the readers’ life or expand their realm of dreaming that makes them inspire for a goal that they never thought possible.  Stories bridge vast differences, spark compassion for another situation, or add a perspective that we never known without it. Writing doesn’t just inform about an experience; it builds a shared emotional language that looks deeper than our environmental situation or cultural limitation. This allows us to engage in conflict from a place of understanding, not judgement which grows empathy and compassion for others. In a world divided by fear and difference, writing offers a quiet but powerful path towards peace.