Maria Eduarda Santos

Weeks of "when," "if," and "while" blocks gave birth to what thirteen-year-old Maria would call my finest work: the game "a fuga da rosquinha" (Donut Run). 

I have never been a natural when it comes to programming, but Donut Run was no less than a brigadeiro popsicle (think of a Heath bar but much better). If you crossed the city in time to save a donut, the superhero cat would proudly hold the donut up in the air. If you failed, a "crunch" would be heard as the donut was smashed. Despite the background I could never manage to fix, my teacher argued that Donut Run mirrored my best abilities. I finally thought that I would be applauded for my programming skills, but instead, the skills report revealed that my storytelling and creativity were being celebrated. Putting this game together was hard, and I had just realized why, despite the circumstances, I persisted with such enthusiasm: my love for storytelling.

The passion that sustained me through building Donut Run also got me jumping into a car full of girls every Sunday afternoon and riding to 249 Geraldo Bertolucci – the address I drove to so many times I had memorized it.  As a member of an international leadership organization for girls called Job’s Daughters, I worked on a project helping young mothers in situations of vulnerability. The girls and I engaged in group discussions, pizza sales, friendship building, assembling maternity kits, and reading to children during communal Sunday book fairs. During my most active years, I held the secretary position, registering our meetings for superiors in the organization and sharing our work on Instagram. Serving my community enriched my life, and connecting with girls the same age and leading our own projects allowed me to explore leadership and teamwork. Though I cherished being part of such remarkable work, the reason  I so passionately engaged in the organization was not my need to serve my community, but my enthusiasm for sharing our journey with others.

Before long, I would go from crossing the city to traversing the continent. Rotary International sent me to represent my country as a Youth Ambassador of Peace in Torreon, Mexico. The idea was to learn more about the world so that I could understand more about myself. Since I see life as a collection of stories, I sought to hear more stories to gain a deeper understanding of life. I dressed up as Catrina, a central symbol of Mexico's Day of the Dead, got elotes with my host mom every Thursday evening, and joined a soccer team. New to the Spanish language and to Mexico, I first thought I was mainly an observer. But my experiences were powerful enough to bridge me to their stories, allowing me to feel them, not merely to listen. Soon enough, I realized that Mexico had become part of my own story: experiencing new cultures granted me novel ways of perceiving the world that are now part of who I am. However, neither my enthusiasm for exploring diverse cultures nor my love for languages is why I wholeheartedly immersed myself in another country. The key factor was what I found in the heart of my experience, what makes me feel as though I'm eating a brigadeiro popsicle: stories.

Thirteen-year-old Maria was given the task of coding a game, and she came up with an entire adventure. I wanted to help people, and I did while recording our meetings–our journeys– and sharing it with others. I crossed the ocean so I could hear and learn from as many stories of different ways of living as I could.  Because I love storytelling so much, and because it comes naturally, I engage with passion in everything I can find stories within. Anytime I need a reminder to live passionately, I look for stories, and I find them.