As part of our celebration of the new ASW Hall of Honour—an initiative designed to build school legacy and recognize individuals who have left an indelible impact on our community—we are proud to spotlight standout alumna Julia Owerko (’20). From the starting blocks of the ASW pool to the halls of Boston University and now Columbia University, Julia’s journey is the ultimate blueprint for proving you never have to choose between world-class athletics and elite academics. Here, in her own deeply reflective words, is her story.

Part 1: Belonging to the Story

Finding out that I would be inducted into ASW’s Hall of Honour was the first time I learned about any legacy I had left behind. I never realized that my time at ASW had made an impact meaningful enough to be remembered, let alone honored. ASW shaped so much of who I am and will always have a special place in my heart; knowing that I remain part of its story means the world to me.

But I can’t call it “my” legacy alone. I am forever indebted to everyone here who made the school my home. I grew up here, this is the place where my friends became family, and where I learned what person I want to become. Everyday I stepped on campus I was inspired by the love and friendships that are the foundation of ASW’s community. Without my friends and teachers, whose encouragement and support directly translated into faith in my dreams, I would not have had the courage to overcome the hardships and obstacles that forged the strength and determination I carry with me today.

Part 2: Shattering the "Either/Or" Myth

My teachers prepared me to be an independent scholar fueled by a thirst for knowledge and not grades. That mindset was instrumental to my success in academia because it gave me agency over my education. I realized very early on that success in academics and athletics required the same foundation: discipline, curiosity, resilience, and the ability to manage discomfort. ASW helped me see that I did not have to choose between being a serious student and a serious athlete. I could be both, as long as I was willing to take ownership of both.

Part of being an athlete meant missing class for training camps and swim meets, so it wasn’t unusual for me to disappear for two-three weeks at a time. But I never returned behind. I came back to class more curious than I left, excited to share my thoughts and questions with my classmates.

"That’s not to say there weren’t some hectic moments. I wrote my first draft of my ToK essay in my cap and goggles, on my phone, sitting behind the starting blocks, waiting to be announced for my heat. My EE was completed before most of my peers even chose their topic."

I also took my 9th grade exams two weeks early because I had to leave for training camp, and I didn’t learn the Polonez because it interfered with practice times. I made it work because I wanted it to work—I needed it to work. No sacrifice was too big in the grand scheme of things and no excuse was good enough to justify falling short of the standards I had set for myself.

The Spaces Where Dreams Take Root

I hope the statute of limitations has passed on this, but in first grade, I was notoriously late in the mornings. When I began walking to school on my own in second grade, I started arriving far too early, often twenty minutes before class began. While the other students were sent outside for morning recess, I would quietly make my way to Ms. Henriksen’s classroom, my teacher the year before. In her class, we had begun a thick writing journal, though by the time summer arrived, I had completed only a quarter of it. When I returned to school that fall, I began bringing the journal with me each morning, filling its pages one entry at a time.

Gradually, those early mornings became our own little writing workshop. She gave me the space, attention, and encouragement to keep going, and within a few weeks, I had filled the entire booklet. Looking back now, I understand that those mornings were about far more than finishing a journal. They were one of the first signs that I had something to say, and perhaps more importantly, one of the first times someone gave me the space to believe that what I had to say was worth writing down.

Moments like this are what make ASW the place where I first believed my dreams could come true. I never felt limited there—not by expectations, not by convention, and not by the idea that there was only one acceptable way to be a student. ASW taught me that when you care deeply about something, when you treat a goal seriously and are willing to put real effort behind it, teachers will move mountains to support you. They do not stand in the way of your dreams; they become part of the team helping you reach them.

Whether it meant skipping recess to work on my writing, coming in outside of class to complete presentations, taking exams early before leaving for swim meets, or finding creative solutions when my academic and athletic commitments collided, ASW gave me the confidence to advocate for myself. I learned that support was not something passively given; it was something built through communication, trust, responsibility, and mutual respect. If you showed your teachers that your dream mattered to you—not just in words, but through discipline and commitment—they met you there. That is what makes ASW exceptional. It does not simply tell students that the sky is the limit; it gives them the tools, relationships, and belief system to reach for it.

Part 3: Stepping Onto the NCAA Division I Stage

Swimming and diving for Boston University was a thrilling entry into a Division I program. This is actually a hilarious story, because I didn’t even consider Boston University until my fall semester of senior year. I think it was a Thursday afternoon, so any other week I’d be on my way to practice. But that day the stars aligned and instead of going to the pool, I was in the High School Commons when I got a text message that a BU representative was visiting. I quickly checked if BU was DI and what times their swimmers were posting. Needless to say, I went to the seminar, spoke to Liam (shoutout Liam), and the rest is history.

But the answer wasn’t clear at first. I struggled to find a place where I could live out both my academic and athletic dreams. For a while, I felt a burden that I didn’t meet people’s expectations, and that perhaps I “low-balled” myself by not attending an Ivy League school or another university that people immediately associate with prestige. However, I knew I needed to be in an environment where academics were not a competition—I had plenty of that coming from swimming—but rather a space to explore, make mistakes, and learn from others.

What ultimately led me to choose Boston University was the belief that it would allow me to grow not only as a student and a scholar, but also as a person. I wanted to be somewhere that would push me without consuming me, somewhere that would give me room to let go of the perfectionism that had often held me back from genuine growth. BU felt like a place where I could continue pursuing excellence, but with a broader understanding of what excellence actually meant. It was not just about being the best in the classroom or the fastest in the pool; it was about becoming more curious, more courageous, more independent, and more open to the kind of growth that cannot happen when you are only chasing validation.

Even now, knowing that I lived out my dream and made it my reality, I still find myself looking back with a sense of disbelief. I remember seeing my last name printed on the nameplate above my locker—a locker that would become mine for almost half a decade—and feeling like I had stepped into a life I had once only imagined. It was a simple detail, but it made everything real: I was there, I belonged there, and the dream I had carried for so long had become my everyday reality.

Living out the dream of being a college athlete was even more intoxicating than dreaming it. I was mesmerized by the status athletes held on American college campuses—the way sport gave you an immediate identity, a kind of visibility that followed you everywhere. We all carried matching backpacks with our team name embroidered across them, so anyone passing us on Commonwealth Avenue knew we were part of Boston University’s Swimming and Diving team. In the weight room, we arrived in matching gear, filling the space with scarlet red. At competitions, we wore the same suits, caps, and warmups.

Everything about it reminded me that I was no longer chasing the dream alone; I had become part of a unit. And beyond the visible symbols of belonging, there was an entire system built around helping us succeed. We had coaches, athletic trainers, academic advisors, and sports psychologists who supported not only our performance, but also our individual goals and the aspirations we carried as a team. That level of care made the experience feel both surreal and deeply serious. The dream was no longer just about getting there; it became about learning how to live inside it—how to meet its demands, how to grow under its pressure, and how to become the kind of person capable of honoring the opportunity I had been given.

Part 4: The Synergy of Curiosity

Going into my senior year, one of my biggest challenges was learning how to manage competition anxiety while still setting a goal that motivated me without overwhelming me. I remember sitting with one of my coaches outside Caffè Nero near campus, moving back and forth between conversations about swimming and school, when we arrived at an important realization: more than anything, I am motivated by curiosity.

The same curiosity that made me want to understand how my stroke worked also made me want to understand history, politics, literature, and the world around me. In the classroom, curiosity gives me courage to ask questions, to look beyond the obvious answer, and to approach uncertainty not as something to fear, but as something to explore. In the pool, it helped me approach my body, my technique, and my limits with the same investigative mindset. Swimming and academics may have looked like two separate worlds, but for me, they were driven by the same instinct: the desire to understand something deeply enough to grow from it.

That realization unlocked what I now think of as a golden era in my swimming, because it gave us an essential insight into what truly drove me in the water. I was not motivated only by times, rankings, or external expectations. I was motivated by the curiosity of what my body could do, what I could adjust to make it move faster, and what might happen to my stroke if I changed even the smallest detail. That mentality transformed the way I understood swimming. It became less of a purely athletic pursuit and more of a research process—an academic model, one built on experimentation, observation, reflection, and refinement. Something that had once felt stressful and overwhelming became something I could study, nurture, and explore. Every question answered became a form of progress, regardless of the final result. The goal behind every practice, every set, and every race became not simply to perform, but to learn.

Being an athlete taught me that setbacks are not evidence that you do not belong, but moments that test how badly you are willing to keep going. I learned to transform failure into motivation, to return to disappointment with greater discipline, and to understand that resilience is built when quitting feels easiest. No matter how many people told me to stop—and even in the moments when I began to believe them—there was always a part of me too stubborn, too hopeful, and too committed to give up. That instinct to keep going became the foundation of my athletic and academic life. It pushed me to pursue opportunities outside my comfort zone and to view the learning process not as a test of perfection, but as an accumulation of experience.

Finding the Scholar Within

In the summer before my freshman year, I applied for a writer position at the International Relations Review, a biannual academic journal published by Boston University. I did not get it. So I applied again. Eventually, after proving myself as an online writer, I earned a position as a Staff Writer in the journal’s Europe section, where I contributed to four editions during my junior and senior years. My article, “Memory and Manipulation: Poland’s Diplomatic Use of History with Germany,” was featured on the cover of the journal’s Spring 2024 issue—a full-circle moment that made me grateful for the first rejection. It taught me that sometimes not getting the opportunity right away gives you the time to become the person who is truly ready for it.

My proudest moment as a student was being invited by my journalism professor, Professor Graves, to deliver a guest lecture in her upper-level Media and Democracy seminar, which examined the rise and consequences of mis- and disinformation. My lecture explored how Poland’s history of partitions, occupation, and communist rule shaped a national consciousness deeply attuned to questions of truth, memory, and political manipulation. I analyzed how historical trauma can become both a source of democratic resilience and a vulnerability—something that helps societies recognize propaganda, but can also be exploited through selective memory, nationalist narratives, and politically motivated distortions of the past.

I was deeply grateful for that opportunity because, for the first time, I felt that I was being recognized not only as a student, but as a scholar. I was trusted for the knowledge I had built, the questions I was capable of asking, and the perspective I could bring into the classroom. More than that, my background was not something I had to translate, minimize, or set aside; it became part of what made my contribution meaningful. My Polish heritage, my personal connection to the history I was discussing, and my academic work all came together at that moment. I was no longer simply learning from the conversation—I was helping shape it.

Part 5: The Mentors Who Believed First

Any sort of success I achieved is a direct testament to the support I received from my teachers and staff. Every exception made for me was a sign of faith in my dreams, a message that I was worth making the exception for. Completing my work to the best of my ability became my way of honoring the flexibility I had been given. I understood that every exception was also an expression of trust, and I felt a responsibility to prove that trust had been well placed. Trust gave me independence, but expectations gave me discipline. That combination taught me that having it all was not about doing everything easily; it was about proving, again and again, that I was willing to do the work required to deserve both. Over time, each absence became not a question of whether I could keep up, but further evidence that I could balance both worlds with discipline and integrity.

I think the teacher who recognized my potential before anyone else did was my sixth-grade Native Polish teacher, Ms. Gałek. She saw how determined and focused I was in the classroom, and I think she was the first person to understand that I was my own biggest limitation. Although I loved school, I was painfully shy. I cried during presentations, kept my questions to myself, and tried my best to go unnoticed among the rest of the students. Before she believed in me, I think part of me genuinely felt like I was a waste of time.

But Ms. Gałek made me feel worthy of patience and saw who I was meant to be, and who I could become if I was given the right support to conquer my fears. Instead of forcing me to become confident all at once, she gave me the space to take a few steps back and grow at my own pace before asking me to flourish. I would come to her classroom and complete presentations behind closed doors, slowly building the courage I needed, until our final presentation, when all the practice and all the support she had given me turned into the confidence to stand in front of my peers. She taught me that there is more than one way to reach a goal, and that struggling does not mean you are incapable—sometimes it simply means you need someone willing to help you find another way. She took a chance on me, and in her classroom, for the first time in my life, I experienced what true confidence felt like.

Part 6: The Ultimate 100-Meter Finish

In my final season as a competitive athlete, I set my first true goal time: to break 1:05 in the 100 breaststroke, a barrier that had been haunting me since freshman year. From that moment on, my swimming became something of a thesis—every experiment we conducted, every race strategy we tested, and every adjustment we made to my stroke gave us information about what question we could ask next to move closer to breaking that 65-second mark. Every swim became an opportunity to try something new, accompanied by a childlike joy I had rediscovered in the process. That final season, the harder a practice looked on paper, the more excited I became. I was no longer driven by fear, pressure, or the need to prove myself. I was driven by curiosity, by love for the sport, and by the desire to discover what I was still capable of becoming.

By the time I stood behind the blocks, I had already accomplished more than I once thought possible. I was ready to race—a feeling that had never come easily to me. I knew my stroke inside and out; I knew what my body was capable of because I had asked and answered that question so many times before.

Before every race, I had a ritual: I would take one deep breath before kneeling down on the block. On the inhale, I reminded myself how lucky I was to stand there, that this was where I was always meant to be, and that I had spent most of my swimming career dreaming of this exact moment. On the exhale, I let go of every negative feeling that tried to take that opportunity away from me and reminded myself that no matter the outcome, I am still living my dream.

That last 100 breaststroke became my proudest moment as a swimmer. I executed my race strategy as close to perfection as my body would allow. Every part of that race reflected the swimmer I had worked so hard to become. When I saw the numbers 1:04.99 on the screen next to my name—the exact time I had written on my goal sheet five months earlier—I knew I had done more than reach a goal. I had conquered the part of my mind that once made me afraid of wanting something too much. For the first time, I felt not only proud of the swimmer I had become, but at peace with everything it had taken to become her. I entered retirement knowing that my last moments in the sport, the last strokes I took, came out of love for the sport and not fear.

Part 7: The Next Pinnacle & Timeless Connections

In September, I will be starting my next chapter at Columbia University as a candidate for the Master of Arts in Russia, Eurasia, and Eastern Europe Regional Studies (MARS-REERS). In my thesis, I plan to research generational shifts in voting behaviour in Poland and, more broadly, in Central and Eastern Europe, with particular attention to the growing appeal of “third” political alternatives among young voters, whose attitudes are informed not by the historical legacy of the post-communist transition but by immediate, material concerns. I want to test prevailing theories of political socialisation and party identification to explain youth disengagement from Poland’s entrenched PiS–PO duopoly.

What drove me to this course of study is my desire for expertise. When Mr. Sheehan introduced me at our graduation, he joked that if allowed I would have taken all IB subjects possible. MARS-REERS is one of, if not the most, interdisciplinary graduate programs offered at a U.S. institution, and that is exactly what drew me to it. I believe that the answers to the questions we need to ask are found at the intersection of many fields. To understand a region, a conflict, a political shift, or a historical legacy, you have to bridge conversations across subjects, not only to enrich the discussion by introducing different perspectives, but also to introduce different mechanisms of analysis, connection, and interpretation. For me, interdisciplinarity is not about studying many things at once; it is about learning how those things speak to one another, and how a fuller understanding emerges when they do.

My current plan for after my master’s is to join the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and enroll in their Diplomacy Academy. That idea was born out of my internship at the Polish Consulate in New York which opened my eyes to the exciting world of Foreign Service where expertise intersects with human connection. It requires prowess, but also empathy; analysis, but also storytelling; conviction, but also the ability to listen. Diplomacy asks you to understand the world deeply and then translate that understanding into relationships, decisions, and action.

At some point in my life, I also see myself devoting myself to writing and research. Whether that means journalism, think tank work, academia, or something that combines all three, I want my knowledge to contribute to today’s conversations and lead ones in the future. I want my ideas to connect researchers, experts, and most importantly bring opposing viewpoints to the same table and facilitate discussions that the world is too polarized to have today.

A Message to the Future Warriors

Looking back at my years as a Warrior, my absolute most vivid memory is my PechaKucha presentation in Ms. Kiełcz’s Native Polish class. We were asked to speak about our greatest passion outside of school, and I chose swimming. I remember standing there, swinging my arms out of pre-race habit, when my classmate David pointed it out. The adrenaline was the same. But as I began to narrate a video clip of Michael Phelps, my passion took over completely. That was a defining moment for me because, for the first time, my desire to share what I loved became stronger than my fear of being seen. I realized that passion has its own kind of authority. It taught me how to transform anxiety into energy.

To the current high school students at ASW, I encourage you to find something that motivates you besides grades. I’ve seen a lot of people struggle trying to keep up with academics because they tried to memorize content. When you move beyond memorization and begin to genuinely understand the content, you unlock the potential to apply it elsewhere and make connections that create opportunities for interpretation. Gaining the freedom to think with your knowledge is when it truly becomes your own.

For those athletes hesitant to apply to world-class universities out of fear of the rigorous academic demands: look at where your motivation is coming from. The drive has to be internal. In high school, I was just a kid trying to survive, running on adrenaline, sometimes on 40 minutes of sleep. But college athletic programs are intentionally designed to support you with academic advisors, peer tutoring, and sports psychologists. What made college swimming seem like a breeze was the level of discipline I built right here at ASW.

Don't be afraid to reach out for help. Asking for help is not a weakness, but a form of maturity; it means you are taking ownership of your journey, being proactive about finding solutions, and understanding that you can accomplish more with the support of your team than you ever could by isolating yourself.

Our Class of 2020 shared a very unique, COVID-era graduation, but we grew up together like family, and that kind of connection does not disappear with distance. We still reunite every single year, and last year, over a dozen ASW alumni traveled together to explore New York. Impact is not always measured in accomplishments. Sometimes it lives quietly in the confidence you gave someone, the standard you set without realizing it, or the unseen moments when your perseverance became someone else’s proof that more was possible. Wherever life takes us, when we return home, we return to one another, because in many ways, we are part of each other’s idea of home.