Saanvi’ Essay

PERSONAL STATEMENT

The next one would be different. That's what I told myself the moment I stepped through the door, but I wasn’t prepared for just how solemn it was. The energy? Stale. People nervously twirled pencils, laid out their tools like tools for battle, and tapped their feet like they were waiting for a storm. After the test, small clusters would huddle, their conversations punctuated with sighs, and now and then, someone’s face would twist in anguish. It was always the same people up on stage, while familiar faces from the crowd slowly disappeared, replaced by others who soon met the same fate.

"That was my first and last." "I only did one problem!" But the one that hit hardest? "The worst part about competition math is the competitions." It wasn’t just a test; it was war. Everyone else: your enemy. You’re alone. The goal? Leave them all behind. Friends turned to foes with one score difference. Foes turned to friends in failure. Why couldn’t we be teammates instead of rivals? We were all united by our love of staying up until 3 am on GeoGebra, weren’t we? Why couldn’t we push each other forward, lifting each other up?

That was the moment it hit me. I’d never been to a math competition like that. I wanted to build something new.

A math carnival.

I wanted to flip the stale, algorithmic grind into an adventure. Not just any contest, but a raucous, team-based, thrill-ride where creativity was celebrated, not stifled. But what would it take to make this dream real?

I gathered 12 friends who had been through the same grind. We brainstormed, what made a math contest... a math contest? The formula was evident: show up, register, sit alone. Rounds of mind-numbing, individual tests, a team round for the lucky. Then the quiet exodus of people knowing full well they hadn’t made it. We knew we needed to flip everything upside down.

It wasn’t easy. We needed volunteers, parents, teachers, sponsors—the logistics were as tricky as the math itself. We emailed schools, built a website, and crafted merch. Registrations trickled in, slowly at first. Then we flooded social media, and suddenly, it all started happening. Over 1,000 schools in New Jersey and New York. But the venue? Still up in the air. Should we risk it and book? And of course, backlash about our girls-only policy forced us to write a mission statement (I happily volunteered for that one).

At first, walking into the auditorium felt like stepping into my own past, a test environment where the air was thick with anxiety and hushes, proctors mumbling instructions. But this time, it was different. Even before the doors opened, the magic was already starting. AoPS partners showed up, dressed like leprechauns, handing out free goodies, Katy Perry’s powerful voice blasting over the speakers. It was chaotic. Beautifully chaotic.

Girls without teams hung around with us until we formed new ones on the spot. I was running around like I was flying—this time, I wasn’t the faceless organizer; I was in it, in the energy. The room wasn’t just filled with competitors—it was alive. I didn’t need to hide behind some speech, sugarcoating the same tired elitism. I told them to have fun, to get creative. The tests were designed to be like adventures, to make people think, debate, laugh. I had some lingering questions: was it too much to include stars and bars, knowing it could be solved on the spot with enough creativity? Turns out, it wasn’t. Scratch paper dwindled to nothing, chatter exploded as soon as the tests were over, and students asked excitedly about problems.

The aftermath of the event was a mess—pencils, scraps, candy wrappers everywhere—but it made me weirdly happy. With debris strewn everywhere like the aftermath of a great storm, it didn't feel much like an ending at all, but rather, a new beginning.