Every morning before school, before the sun was fully up, I was already working. At thirteen, I was hauling materials on construction sites, pulling weeds, painting walls, and setting up tables at the swap meet by five in the morning. My stepfather had passed away, and my mother and younger brother were depending on me from across the border in Mexico. I kept a mental list of everything I needed to get done each day, because if I did not, something would fall through the cracks. I did not know it then, but I was already living by the same principle Joe Gilroy carried in his shirt pocket: plan your work, work your plan. That discipline carried me through the hardest chapters of my life. I was diagnosed with epilepsy at thirteen, spent fourteen years carrying it in silence, and fell into severe depression. Soccer was the only thing that kept me showing up to high school. I graduated with a 2.1 GPA and no clear path forward. But I made a plan anyway, enrolled at East Los Angeles College, worked multiple jobs while taking classes, and took it one step at a time. Today I volunteer and support organizations serving undocumented, first-generation, and low-income students across Los Angeles, and I am pursuing my M.S. in Student Development in Higher Education at California State University, Long Beach. My Action Plan: - 2025 to 2026: Stabilize and Build 1) Apply for scholarships each semester to offset tuition costs of $3,500 to $4,500 annually 2) Make consistent monthly payments toward private student loans 3) Complete two graduate courses per semester while working full time 4) Secure mentorship from a student affairs director by end of 2025 - 2026 to 2027: Deepen Expertise 1) Attend at least one regional student affairs conference 2) Complete grant writing training or workshop 3) Propose a College Success course at a local institution to gain teaching experience 4) Increase loan payments as scholarship support reduces financial pressure - 2027 to 2028: Finish Strong 1) Complete M.S. thesis or capstone focused on equity-centered program design 2) Build network of community and institutional partners 3) Apply for director-level positions in student success or advocacy centers 4) Eliminate remaining private loan balance or reach a manageable payoff timeline - 2028 and Beyond: Lead and Reform 1) Direct a center integrating advising, mental health, disability support, and career readiness for underserved students 2) Advocate at the state level for Dream Resource Centers and disability services as core institutional funding priorities 3) Use my story publicly to break stigma around epilepsy, immigration status, and poverty in higher education Financially, I am tracking almost every dollar in and every dollar out with excel. That habit did not start in graduate school. It started at the swap meet. This scholarship would directly reduce my loan burden and free up resources I can redirect toward my degree, my professional development, and my family. I want to be the person for someone else that a mentor at ELAC was for me, the one who sees potential before the student can see it themselves. Joe Gilroy kept his plan in his shirt pocket so he would never lose sight of it. I keep mine in everything I do. The difference between where I started and where I am going is not luck. It is a plan, worked every single day.

I arrived in the United States at age five, undocumented, with no roadmap and no family member who had ever set foot in a college classroom. In middle school, I was diagnosed with epilepsy, a reality I carried in silence for years out of fear that disclosing it would get me labeled, tracked, or dismissed. The diagnosis brought on severe depression, and for a long time, the only thing that kept me showing up to high school was soccer. It gave me structure, teammates, and a reason to get out of bed when very little else did. By high school, I had a 2.1 GPA and no clear sense of where I was headed. Higher education was not something I believed was meant for me. What I did have was work. I started working at thirteen, construction sites, gardening, painting, labor jobs of all kinds. I was waking up at five in the morning to sell at the swap meet before most of my classmates were awake. My stepfather had passed away, and my mother and younger brother were living in Mexico. The money I earned was not spending money. It was survival, theirs and mine. I carried that responsibility through high school, through community college, and into my adult life. It shaped how I understand the students sitting across from me today, because I know what it means to be studying for an exam while also figuring out how to send money home, to be chasing a degree while the people you love most are depending on you to hold everything together. I am currently pursuing my M.S. in Student Development in Higher Education at California State University, Long Beach, with an expected completion date of May 2028. This program is giving me the theoretical foundation and leadership framework to match the practical experience I have spent years building. My goal upon graduation is to direct a center or program that integrates academic advising, mental health support, and career readiness for first-generation, undocumented, students with disabilities, and underserved students broadly. I want to lead the kind of space that I once desperately needed and eventually helped build for others, one that treats disability not as a barrier to navigate around but as an identity deserving of dedicated resources, advocacy, and institutional investment. The changes I am working toward are both systemic and personal. At the field level, I want to advocate for mandatory culturally responsive training for student affairs staff and faculty that goes beyond a checkbox module. I want to push California colleges and universities to treat Dream Resource Centers and disability support services not as supplemental offerings but as central to institutional equity. And I want to be part of a larger conversation about what higher education is for, because that conversation is more urgent than ever. We are living through a moment when the value of a college degree is being publicly questioned. The rise of AI, remote work, and internet-based careers has created new pathways that did not exist a generation ago. But for first-generation students, undocumented students, students with disabilities, and students from low-income communities, higher education is still one of the most reliable tools available for breaking the poverty cycle. Many of these students sacrifice enormously to earn their degrees, working full time, supporting families across borders, losing sleep, losing time, giving up things their peers never had to consider. And then they graduate and cannot find a job. That failure is not theirs. It is ours, as institutions, as a field, as a system that prepared them academically but did not equip them for what comes next. That is the reform I want to drive. Higher education needs to be rebuilt around the realities of the students it was never originally designed to serve. That means equipping students with transferable skills, digital literacy, and career readiness from day one. It means integrating technology and community partnerships into advising and support models. It means creating programs that connect classroom learning to economic mobility in tangible, practical ways. And it means centering the students who have the most to gain from getting this right, because when we design for the most marginalized, we build something better for everyone. For myself, the change I am driving is one of scope. I have spent years doing this work at the individual level, one student, one appointment, one crisis at a time. That work matters and I will never stop doing it. But I am building toward the capacity to shape systems, to train the next generation of advisors, to influence policy, and to create environments where students do not have to fight as hard just to access what should already be available to them. I did not have a straight path into higher education. I had a 2.1 GPA, a hidden diagnosis, severe depression, an uncertain immigration status, years of labor work before I was old enough to drive, and one mentor who decided I was worth his time. That combination of adversity and investment is what drives everything I do. And it is exactly what I intend to keep passing forward.

Selflessness, for me, has never been a single dramatic gesture. It has been a pattern of showing up, consistently, quietly, and often without recognition, for people who needed someone in their corner. I arrived in this country at age five, undocumented. I navigated middle school with an epilepsy diagnosis I kept hidden for years because I was afraid of what disclosure would cost me. I had no family member who had ever gone to college, and for a long time, I did not believe I belonged in one. What eventually changed my path was a mentor at East Los Angeles College who simply decided to invest in me, not because it was required, but because he chose to. That act of selfless attention became the model I have tried to live by ever since. At ELAC, I did not just receive that support. I helped build something larger from it. I advocated for and helped establish one of the first Dream Resource Centers for undocumented students in the California community college system. I was a student myself, carrying my own uncertainty, but I recognized that my classmates needed a dedicated place to turn and that I was in a position to help create it. That work was not part of any job description. It was a choice. That same instinct has carried into my professional life. As a Professional Advisor at Cal State LA, I work with over 65 students weekly, many of them first-generation, undocumented, or navigating crises that have nothing to do with academics. I do not wait for them to come to me at the breaking point. I reach out early, I follow up, and I stay in the room long enough to understand what a student is actually carrying before I offer anything. At NAMI Westside Los Angeles, I built an internship program designed to open doors for students who had historically been locked out of mental health careers, including BIPOC, first-generation, and undocumented students. I managed the budget, supervised the interns, wrote the handbook, and grew the program. But the part that mattered most was the individual intern who came in unsure they belonged in the field and left with the skills and confidence to pursue it. Selflessness, to me, is not about sacrifice for its own sake. It is about noticing who needs support, having the capacity to help, and choosing to act, not once, but as a way of moving through the world. That is what Michael Rudometkin understood. It is what I try to practice every day.

I am not becoming a teacher in the traditional sense, but I am becoming an educator. The distinction matters, and so does the story behind it. I arrived in the United States at age five, undocumented. In middle school, I was diagnosed with epilepsy and carried that diagnosis in silence for years, afraid of being labeled or dismissed. I was a high school student with barely a 2.1 GPA, and no one in my immediate family had ever gone to college. Higher education was not something I believed was meant for me. What changed my trajectory was not a program or a policy. It was a person. A mentor at East Los Angeles College saw something in me before I could see it in myself. He asked the right questions, took the time to understand my situation, and helped me take one step at a time toward something I could not yet fully imagine. That experience did not just change my path. It defined my purpose. I went on to earn my associate degree at ELAC, transfer to UC Santa Barbara, and eventually build a career in student affairs spanning community colleges, CSU campuses, and nonprofit organizations. Along the way, I helped establish ELAC's Dream Resource Center, one of the first dedicated spaces for undocumented students in the California community college system. I did not set out to build a center. I set out to make sure the next student who walked through those doors had somewhere to turn, because I once needed that and did not have it. Today, I serve as a Professional Advisor at California State University, Los Angeles, where I work primarily with first-generation, undocumented, and underserved students in the College of Health and Human Services. I advise over 65 students weekly, facilitate crisis intervention, and chair Pillar #1 of the Glazer Family Dreamers Resource Center Taskforce, where I lead policy development and equity initiatives. I also serve as Internship Coordinator at NAMI Westside Los Angeles, where I have expanded equitable access to mental health careers for BIPOC and first-generation students, growing the applicant pool by 175% and authoring a handbook adopted by over 600 affiliates nationwide. My classroom is an advising office. My curriculum is the Action Plan I build with each student — a student-centered framework where we set goals together, map realistic timelines, and identify steps tied to what the student actually wants for their life. I do not impose a path. I help students find their own and trust that it is worth pursuing. What I have learned from years of this work is that inspiration is rarely a speech. It is a question asked at the right moment. It is someone staying in the room long enough to understand what a student is actually carrying. It is a mentor telling a 19-year-old with epilepsy and no college-going family that he belongs in higher education anyway. That is what I try to bring into every appointment. Pursuing my M.S. in Student Development in Higher Education at Cal State Long Beach is part of a longer arc. I want to lead a center or program that integrates academic advising, mental health support, and career readiness for students who have historically been underserved by institutions. I want to train the next generation of student affairs practitioners to see equity not as a value statement on a website, but as a daily practice. And I want to advocate, at the institutional level, for policies that remove the barriers my students should not still be navigating in 2026. The mentor who changed my life probably did not think of himself as a teacher either. He was an advisor doing his job with genuine investment in the person sitting across from him. That investment rippled forward — through my career, into the students I serve, and hopefully into the careers they will one day build. That is what I am working toward. Not a title, but a ripple.

My career is rooted in the hardest parts of my life. I am a DACA recipient with epilepsy who grew up navigating systems never designed with my family in mind: healthcare without insurance, higher education without financial aid pathways, and a diagnosis I carried in silence for years out of fear of stigma. Every barrier I encountered, immigration status, chronic illness, financial hardship, became a window into someone else's struggle. What began as survival slowly became something I could not ignore: a calling to create the spaces I once desperately needed. The first day of eighth grade marked one of the hardest chapters of my life. I woke up around 6 a.m., stood in front of the bathroom mirror fixing my hair, and the next thing I knew, I was in a hospital bed in Boyle Heights lying next to my dad, unaware I had just had my first seizure. I was thirteen when I was diagnosed with epilepsy, and I still remember how large the pills looked in my small hands and the weight of being told there was no cure. For the next fourteen years, I told no one. I watched a classmate get bullied after seizing at school and made a quiet decision: I would carry this alone. It was not until 2024, ten years seizure-free, that I finally spoke openly at a fundraising event, and the moment I did, students began reaching out with struggles of their own. The silence I had lived inside for so long became something that could actually help people. The nonprofit sector is where I found my purpose. At NAMI Westside Los Angeles, I expanded an internship program that had been largely inaccessible to the students who needed it most, opening it beyond its UCLA-centered roots to include undocumented, first-generation, and low-income students from community colleges across Los Angeles. I built partnerships with college and university departments so students could earn academic credit while gaining hands-on experience in mental health advocacy and grassroots organizing. I also facilitated support groups for family members navigating mental health challenges and led presentations at middle and high schools to break stigma and open doors for the next generation of advocates. My commitment to underrepresented students extends into higher education as well. At Cal State LA, I advise underserved students weekly, chair equity policy development on the Glazer Family Dreamers Resource Center Taskforce, and serve as a bridge between students and the legal, financial, mental health, and academic resources that can change the trajectory of their lives. I conduct crisis intervention, facilitate bilingual outreach in English and Spanish, and use data-informed tools to identify gaps and push for systemic change. Every part of this work is rooted in the same belief that has guided me since helping establish ELAC's Dream Resource Center: that equitable access to support is not a privilege. It is a right. Looking ahead, I want to lead programs that weave mental health, career readiness, and cultural belonging into a single, cohesive student experience, ensuring that the students who have historically been pushed to the margins are centered. I am deepening that vision through my Master's in Student Development in Higher Education at California State University, Long Beach, where I am learning to build systems that are not just responsive but transformative. I do not just want to work in the nonprofit sector. I want to help build the infrastructure that makes the next generation of students' dreams possible, the way others helped build mine.

Giving back has never been something separate from my life, it has been woven into my identity and my purpose since the moment I first learned to advocate for myself as an undocumented, low-income student navigating higher education with epilepsy. Every challenge I faced became a doorway into understanding the experiences of others, and today, my work in higher education and the nonprofit sector is grounded in a commitment to supporting students who carry invisible burdens similar to my own. Currently, I give back through my work as a student affairs professional, where I guide other students academically, personally, and professionally across diverse institutions such as Cal State LA, UC Santa Barbara, Georgetown University, and the Wharton Program at Penn State. In each role, I prioritize creating environments where students feel seen, validated, and empowered. My advising philosophy is proactive and holistic: I reach out early, consider students’ family responsibilities, financial stress, cultural backgrounds, and mental health needs, and help them build Action Plans with clear steps toward their goals. This framework not only supports students academically but also helps them break down overwhelming challenges, a skill I once had to develop on my own. I also give back through mental health advocacy. My work with NAMI Westside Los Angeles allowed me to support students seeking both internship opportunities and emotional support. Sharing my own journey with epilepsy publicly, after years of silence, has enabled me to connect with students who are quietly navigating stigma, fear, or health challenges. By being open about my experiences, I create safe spaces for others to do the same. Additionally, my work began long before I entered the profession. As a community college student, I helped establish one of the first Dream Resource Centers for undocumented and LGBTQ+ students in the California community college system. That experience taught me the importance of institutional change and affirmed that giving back is also about building structures that will outlast me. Looking ahead, I plan to make a positive impact on the world by becoming a director of a student success, career-readiness, or holistic support center in higher education. In this role, I hope to design programs that integrate mental health, career preparation, and a sense of belonging, ensuring that students graduate not only with academic knowledge but also with confidence, resilience, and a clear sense of purpose. I also plan to leverage technology to expand access to resources, particularly for first-generation and low-income students who may not know where to begin. Beyond program leadership, I aim to influence institutional culture by training faculty and staff to embed equity and career readiness into their work. I want to build pathways that help students connect education to life after graduation, reducing barriers that disproportionately affect marginalized communities. Ultimately, my future impact is rooted in the same mission that guides my work today: transforming personal struggle into collective empowerment. I hope to continue creating spaces where students feel supported, mentored, and believed in, ensuring that the opportunities I fought to access become more attainable for the generations who follow.

My American Dream begins with something many people take for granted: access to quality health care and the chance to improve my family’s well-being and my own. My understanding of this dream is rooted in a childhood shaped by instability in Mexico City, immigration to the United States at age five, and years of navigating life as an undocumented, low-income student living with epilepsy. For me, the American Dream is fundamentally about possibility, dignity, healing, and the ability to transform struggle into purpose. Growing up, my earliest memories were marked by frequent moves, financial hardship, and the absence of my mother, a void I only later came to understand with compassion. That instability forced me to mature quickly and taught me resilience long before I had the language for it. The American Dream, for me, started as the hope for a life where I would no longer feel powerless, where safety, stability, and opportunity were not abstract concepts but lived experiences. Those early challenges shaped the values I carry today: perseverance, empathy, and a deep belief that adversity can be reshaped into strength. My definition of the American Dream evolved further when I was diagnosed with epilepsy in eighth grade. For fourteen years, I kept this part of my identity hidden out of fear—fear of judgment, stigma, and being treated as less capable. It was only in 2024, after reaching ten years without a seizure, that I finally spoke openly about my diagnosis. Reclaiming this part of my story transformed what once felt like shame into a testament of survival. It taught me that the American Dream includes the freedom to embrace every part of oneself, especially the pieces we once felt obligated to hide. My journey as an advocate at East Los Angeles College expanded my understanding even more. As a low-income, undocumented student struggling to access financial aid and basic resources, I learned not only to advocate for myself but for others facing similar barriers. Helping establish one of the first Dream Resource Centers for undocumented and LGBTQ+ students showed me that the American Dream is not achieved alone; it grows through community, mentorship, and collective courage. It is the belief that institutions can transform, new resources can emerge, and doors that were once closed can be opened for others. Throughout my experience supporting other students at Cal State LA, UC Santa Barbara, Georgetown University, and the Wharton Program at Penn State, I have seen how many students carry invisible burdens similar to mine. These experiences affirmed that the American Dream is not only about upward mobility; it is about reaching back and lifting others with you. My commitment to holistic, equity-centered student support is rooted in the belief that education is transformative only when students feel seen, supported, and affirmed. One of the most defining moments in shaping my American Dream occurred in 2024, when I returned to Mexico City through DACA’s advance parole program and reunited with my mother after 23 years. That moment of healing reminded me that the American Dream is also about reclaiming parts of ourselves, restoring connections, and becoming whole again. Ultimately, my American Dream is the ability to rewrite my story, regardless of where it began, and to use my journey to uplift others. It is about expanding opportunity, challenging inequities, and turning personal struggle into service. My dream is not only to succeed, but to ensure that the students who follow can dream bigger and face fewer barriers than I once did.

I was born in Mexico City and raised in a low-income, single-parent household where instability, immigration barriers, and health challenges shaped much of my early life. Growing up undocumented and later being diagnosed with epilepsy taught me resilience long before I understood what the word meant. For years, I carried these identities silently, navigating school, work, and adulthood while learning how to advocate for myself and others who shared similar barriers. These experiences, as described in my personal identity exploration, continue to ground the empathy and determination I bring to my work today. My journey in higher education began at East Los Angeles College, where I helped support the creation of one of the first Dream Resource Centers for undocumented and LGBTQ+ students. That work, rooted in community, advocacy, and equity, solidified my passion for student affairs and opened the door to a career dedicated to supporting historically marginalized students. Since then, I have served at institutions including Cal State LA, UC Santa Barbara, and others. Across all these roles, my mission has remained the same: to help students feel seen, supported, and empowered to pursue their goals, especially those balancing financial hardship, family responsibilities, mental health needs, and complex identities. My nonprofit work with NAMI Westside Los Angeles further strengthened my commitment to holistic student support by revealing the profound connection between mental health, career readiness, and academic success. Whether guiding students through crises or helping them envision future opportunities, I strive to build environments where students can thrive not only academically, but also personally and emotionally. Looking ahead, my goal is to become a director of a student success, career readiness, or holistic support center within higher education. I hope to design programs that integrate technology, wellness, equity-based advising, and career preparation, creating accessible and culturally affirming pathways for students who, like me, grew up with barriers that made higher education seem out of reach. Graduate study is essential to shaping me into the leader I aspire to be. Through my master’s program, I am building expertise in student development, program design, organizational leadership, and assessment so I can lead equity-driven initiatives at the institutional level. As a low-income, first-generation, and formerly undocumented student of color, pursuing graduate education has never been financially easy. This scholarship would significantly reduce the economic burden on my family and me, allowing me to focus more fully on deepening my professional competencies, securing leadership experience, and contributing meaningfully to the communities I serve. It would also help me continue my studies without the constant stress of balancing multiple jobs, something I have done throughout my life to remain in school. Most importantly, this scholarship represents more than financial support; it represents an investment in the future students I will go on to serve. By supporting my education, you are supporting the undocumented student trying to navigate college systems alone, the first-gen student overwhelmed by expectations, and the student quietly battling a health condition or mental health challenge. My journey has taught me that when one person gains access, knowledge, and opportunity, entire communities feel the impact. Thank you for considering my application and for supporting students who continue to transform their challenges into purpose-driven leadership.

Growing up in a low-income, single-parent household in a small studio in Echo Park with my father and four siblings, I learned early what perseverance meant. My father worked long hours to keep food on the table, while I learned to navigate the realities of instability, illness, and uncertainty. My mother’s absence for more than 23 years left a void that shaped my independence and emotional resilience. As the eldest, I became both caretaker and motivator, learning to find strength in family, community, and education. At age thirteen, my life changed when I was diagnosed with epilepsy after collapsing on my first day of eighth grade. I woke up in a hospital bed, terrified and confused, only to be told that I had experienced my first seizure. For the next decade, I lived in silence with my condition, afraid of being judged, pitied, or seen as weak. While my peers talked about college applications and sports, I learned to hide doctor visits and medication routines. Living with epilepsy taught me discipline, self-advocacy, and the value of invisible resilience. It also showed me how much courage it takes for students to show up and persist in their goals while managing unseen battles. My father’s strength and the responsibility of helping raise my siblings fueled my determination to pursue higher education. As an undocumented, first-generation college student, I confronted financial and immigration barriers at every step. Yet, those challenges pushed me toward advocacy. At East Los Angeles College, I helped launch one of the first Dream Resource Centers for undocumented and LGBTQ+ students in California. I realized that the same barriers that once made me feel powerless could instead become the foundation for helping others navigate similar struggles. Reuniting with my mother after 23 years in 2024 through DACA’s Advance Parole was another defining moment. That experience taught me the power of forgiveness, empathy, and healing, values that now shape how I advise and mentor students. I learned that education is not just about academic achievement; it is about reclaiming hope, identity, and belonging. Coming from a low-income, single-parent household has given me a lifelong purpose: to create inclusive educational spaces where students feel seen, supported, and empowered to transform their challenges into strengths. I am currently pursuing my Master’s in Student Development in Higher Education at California State University, Long Beach, where I am learning how to integrate technology and artificial intelligence into student advising and career readiness programs. My goal is to lead a student success or career center that bridges technology, mental health, and education, helping students prepare not just for graduation, but for life beyond it. Every seizure I've survived, every obstacle I've overcome, and every student I have supported reflects one truth: perseverance is not just survival; it is transformation. I plan to continue turning my experiences into purpose, ensuring that no student feels invisible and that every student, regardless of their background, has the opportunity to thrive.

Growing up in a low-income, single-parent household in a small studio in Echo Park with my father and four siblings, I learned early what perseverance meant. My father worked long hours to keep food on the table while I navigated instability, illness, and uncertainty. My mother’s absence for over 23 years shaped my independence and resilience. At age 13, I was diagnosed with epilepsy after collapsing on my first day of eighth grade. I woke up in a hospital bed terrified and confused, only to learn I had experienced my first seizure. For the next decade, I lived in silence with my condition, afraid of being judged or seen as weak. While others talked about sports and college, I hid doctor visits and medication routines. Epilepsy taught me discipline, self-advocacy, and the courage it takes to persist while carrying invisible struggles. My father’s strength and the responsibility of helping raise my siblings fueled my determination to pursue higher education. As an undocumented, first-generation college student, I faced financial and immigration barriers that ultimately inspired me to become an advocate for others. These experiences shaped my purpose: to create inclusive spaces where students feel seen, supported, and empowered to transform their challenges into strengths. I am now pursuing my Master’s in Student Development in Higher Education at California State University, Long Beach, where I focus on integrating technology and artificial intelligence into student advising and career readiness programs. Every seizure I survived, every barrier I overcame, and every student I have supported reflects one truth: perseverance is not just survival, it is transformation. I plan to continue turning my experiences into purpose, ensuring that no student feels invisible and that every student, regardless of background, has the opportunity to thrive.