Growing up in a low-income Hispanic household, I learned early that the spaces we live in can either limit us or help us grow. My siblings and I shared one bathroom and a single small bedroom, and every corner of our crowded home held both the weight of struggle and the warmth of family. My parents did everything they could—my father working long, exhausting construction days, and my mother fighting through illness and recovery after a stroke—but financial instability shaped nearly every part of our lives. As the middle child of five, I often translated documents, handled bills, and navigated adult responsibilities before I even understood what college or a career meant. These early experiences taught me the value of service, resilience, and stepping up when others depend on you. After high school, I delayed college not because I lacked motivation, but because survival came first. I worked full-time to help my family, cared for my autistic brother, and contributed financially while our home was rebuilt after a devastating fire that left us displaced for years. College felt distant and unrealistic, something reserved for people with savings, stability, and guidance. Instead, I entered the construction world, managing project documents, coordinating with contractors, and catching technical errors that prevented costly mistakes. Even though I excelled, I often watched less experienced people with degrees advance while I stayed in place. That reality made something clear: without higher education, my opportunities would always be limited, no matter how hard I worked. Despite uncertainty, I never let go of the idea of returning to school. I had always been drawn to how buildings were created, how spaces shaped people’s lives, and how design could influence well-being. So in my 30s, as a first-generation student and now a mother, I finally enrolled in architecture school. It has been the most challenging decision of my life—balancing motherhood, financial responsibility, long studio hours, and a demanding academic schedule—but it is also the most meaningful path I have ever taken. I want my daughter to grow up watching me pursue a dream that once felt impossible. I want her to know that Latina women belong in architecture, in leadership, and in shaping the world around them. My long-term goal is to become a licensed architect who uses design to uplift underserved communities. Growing up in overcrowded housing gave me firsthand knowledge of how deeply the built environment affects health, safety, education, and mental wellbeing. Too many low-income families live in spaces that ignore their needs or fail to support their dignity. I aim to create affordable, sustainable, culturally respectful spaces that give families the stability and hope my own family struggled so long to find. Architecture is not just about buildings—it is about people. It is about creating environments that protect, empower, and honor the lives lived within them. My background in construction gives me technical insight, but my lived experience gives me purpose. I understand the realities of unsafe installations, poor ventilation, and flawed plans because I have seen them up close. I also understand the emotional impact of not feeling seen or considered in design decisions. These insights motivate me to advocate for equitable, community-centered architecture and to amplify the voices of those who are often excluded from planning processes. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education while supporting my family and reducing financial stress as I work toward licensure. I am committed to becoming an architect-who serves others, who designs with empathy, and who uses every skill I gain to make a positive, lasting difference in the world—especially for families like my own.

I learned early in my career that the construction world rewards the loudest voices, not always the most attentive ones. At five feet two inches, a young Latina woman working in male-dominated job sites, I rarely fit the image of the person contractors expected to lead problem-solving. Yet problems often found me — or rather, I found them before they became expensive disasters. One moment stays with me because it revealed something deeper about my character than I realized at the time. I was reviewing email chains, material orders, and the installation schedule for a residential HVAC project. Something wasn’t adding up. The materials listed didn’t match the plans. When I spoke with the Spanish-speaking workers on-site, they quietly told me they were instructed to install equipment that didn’t belong in that house at all. They were confused, but they didn’t want to get in trouble, so they followed orders even though they knew something was wrong. I went back through the schematics, the model numbers, the load calculations — and confirmed the problem. Wrong equipment had been ordered, and the installation happening that morning would have violated code, risked system failure, and cost the company thousands. I immediately translated instructions for the workers, asked them to pause installation, contacted the supplier, reordered the correct system, and documented everything clearly so the project could move forward safely. The crisis was avoided. The company saved money. The homeowners were protected. The installation team felt respected because someone actually listened to them. But during the next staff meeting, when leadership praised “quick thinking that saved the project,” they credited the project manager — no credit for me. I did not say anything and as part of that silence came from my personality — I dislike being the center of attention, even when the attention is positive. Another part came from the reality of being in a low-pay, entry-level position. I already knew how the hierarchy worked. The people at the top received recognition; the people doing quiet, detailed work kept the project afloat in the background. And there was no raise coming my way regardless. I stayed quiet. Not because I didn’t know my worth, but because I understood the environment I was in. Looking back now, I see the situation differently. In that moment, what mattered most to me was preventing a dangerous and costly mistake, not the credit tied to it. My bilingual skill allowed communication that no one else could bridge. My attention to detail caught errors others overlooked. And my calm handling of the situation made the job safer for everyone involved. Even if no one acknowledged it publicly, I knew what I contributed. That experience shaped my path into architecture in ways I couldn’t understand then. It taught me that the people closest to the work — the laborers in the heat, the admin staff reading every line, the quiet problem-solvers — often carry the invisible weight of a successful project. Architecture, to me, isn’t only about celebrated designs. It’s about responsibility, ethics, and protecting the lives that will inhabit the spaces we create. It also taught me the value of representation. Growing up in a low-income Hispanic household, translating for my parents, navigating crowded living spaces, and learning how to advocate for myself — these experiences gave me the resilience I brought into construction and now into architecture school. I know how it feels to be overlooked, underestimated, and underpaid. I also know how to persevere anyway. If the same situation happened again today, would I still stay silent? I would not, Not because I suddenly want the spotlight, but because I've learned that claiming your work is not an act of ego. It is an act of integrity. It builds trust, establishes leadership, and sets a standard for accountability. Speaking up today would not only honor my own contribution, but it would highlight the essential role of bilingual communication, attention to detail, and cultural competency — skills often undervalued in technical fields. Now, as an architecture student balancing motherhood, financial pressure, and late nights drafting by hand because I cannot afford a computer yet, I understand that my voice matters. My lived experience is not a barrier; it is a strength. I want to design safer, fairer, more compassionate spaces — especially for communities like the one I grew up in. And that requires stepping forward, not shrinking back. The Sturz Legacy Scholarship honors curiosity, courage, and a commitment to uncovering unseen narratives. My story — the quiet worker preventing major failures, the Latina bridging communication gaps, the student determined to uplift others through design — embodies that mission. That moment on the job site changed me. It showed me what kind of professional I was becoming: someone who protects people first, solves problems quietly but powerfully, and is now learning when it is necessary to speak up. I didn’t get credit that day, but I gained clarity about the kind of architect — and leader — I aim to be.

Service has never been something I scheduled into my life—it is something that has been woven into who I am. Growing up in a low-income Hispanic household, I spent much of my childhood helping my family and community in ways that never had official titles but carried deep responsibility. I translated for my parents during doctor’s appointments, school meetings, and financial discussions. I advocated for my brother with autism, helped my siblings with homework, and supported my family through moments of crisis, including my mother’s stroke and the house fire that displaced us for two years. These experiences taught me that service is not measured by hours logged, but by the willingness to show up for others when they need you most. My service continued into my professional life. Working in construction administration, I naturally became the bridge between English- and Spanish-speaking workers. I interpreted instructions, resolved miscommunications, and helped ensure that contractors understood expectations clearly. Something as simple as translation helped prevent job-site errors, reduce conflict, and protect the workers who often felt unheard. I saw how much dignity matters—how being understood is a form of respect. In those moments, service meant using my bilingual skills to support people who rarely have a voice in professional settings. Now, as a first-generation Latina mother returning to college to study architecture, I continue to give back in quieter but meaningful ways. I help classmates who struggle with drafting, design concepts, or model-building—especially those who come from backgrounds like mine and feel intimidated in academic spaces. I share materials, offer critique, and try to create a sense of belonging in studios where many students feel alone. Service, to me, is about lifting others so they can see the possibility in themselves. In the future, I plan to expand that impact through architecture. I believe design is a form of service: it shapes communities, opportunities, and the sense of safety people carry into the world. Growing up in overcrowded, underserved neighborhoods showed me firsthand how deeply the built environment affects one’s mental health, stability, and hope. My goal is to become a licensed architect who focuses on affordable housing, community-centered design, and culturally affirming public spaces for low-income families. I want to create environments where children have room to play, where families feel safe walking at night, and where immigrants and marginalized communities feel seen. I want to design homes that support dignity, schools that inspire learning, and community centers that bring people together. Architecture has the power to heal, empower, and connect—and I want my work to reflect that. Service is also part of my long-term goal to mentor other first-generation and Latina students entering architecture. I know the fear of feeling out of place, the exhaustion of balancing motherhood with education, and the uncertainty of navigating a system no one in your family understands. I want to help open doors that were once closed to students like me. I may not have traditional volunteer hours on paper, but my life has been centered on serving others—family, workers, classmates, and community. The lessons I learned growing up taught me to lead with empathy, patience, and compassion. And those qualities, I believe, will allow me to carry Priscilla Shireen Luke’s legacy forward by serving the world through purpose, design, and heart.

Growing up in a low-income Hispanic household taught me how to persevere long before I understood what the word meant. I grew up with five siblings, sharing one bathroom and one bedroom with my sisters. I translated for my parents, helped support my brother with autism, and learned early on what financial stress feels like. There was never enough space, money, or certainty—but there was responsibility. Those experiences shaped the resilience I rely on today. After high school, I didn’t go to college because my family needed me to work. My income helped cover food, car payments, and expenses after my mother had a stroke and when our home later caught fire. Survival always came before education. But even while working in construction administration, helping contractors, and catching errors that saved companies money, I knew I wanted more. I wanted to become the architect—not just the administrator behind the scenes. Returning to school in my 30s as a mother has required the same strength I learned as a child. I study after caring for my daughter, hand-draft assignments because I cannot afford advanced tools, and push through exhaustion because my goals matter to me. I am actively working toward becoming a licensed architect who designs safe, accessible housing and community-centered spaces for underserved families like my own. My experiences gave me empathy, grit, and a deep desire to uplift others. Architecture is my way of giving back—by creating environments that provide dignity, safety, and opportunity. I want my work to reflect the lessons my childhood taught me: that where you come from matters, but it never has to define where you can go.

Being a first-generation college student means stepping into a world my family never had the chance to access, carrying hope in one hand and responsibility in the other. It means navigating systems no one at home can explain, translating not just language but entire processes—financial aid, applications, advising, and the unspoken expectations of higher education. For me, being first-generation is both a privilege and a weight. It is the promise that my path can be different from the generations before me. I grew up in a low-income Hispanic household, one of five children in an overcrowded home where we shared a single bathroom and I shared a bedroom with my sisters. As the child of immigrants, I translated for my parents, helped advocate for my brother with autism, and learned early on that survival required maturity far beyond my age. College was never talked about—we didn’t know how scholarships worked, how to apply, or how to afford even the idea of higher education. After high school, I went straight to work. Not because I lacked ambition, but because my family needed financial support. My earnings went to food, my car, insurance, and helping my family stay afloat—especially when my mother suffered a stroke and became bedridden, and later when our home caught fire and took two years to rebuild. College wasn’t postponed; it simply wasn’t possible at the time. But the dream never left me. Working in construction administration gave me a glimpse into the world of architecture—RFIs, submittals, field coordination, technical documentation—and I realized I wanted to be the one designing, not just supporting the process. Yet without a degree, opportunities passed me by. I decided that, despite my age, despite motherhood, despite financial strain, I would return to school and become the first in my family to earn a bachelor’s degree. Being a student in my 30s comes with its own challenges. I balance architecture school with raising my one-year-old, managing financial pressure, studying late nights after tending to my family, and working with limited tools—often hand-drafting assignments because I cannot afford advanced software or equipment. But I refuse to quit. My resilience comes from my family, from the community that raised me, and from the belief that my daughter deserves to watch her mother achieve something extraordinary. My dream is to become a licensed architect who designs safe, sustainable housing and community-centered spaces for low-income families. I want to represent Latina voices in a profession where we are underrepresented and build environments that uplift the people who need it most. This scholarship would allow me to continue my education with less financial strain, access proper tools, and focus more deeply on becoming the architect my community deserves. Being first-generation means I am building a foundation not just for myself, but for every generation that comes after me.

I grew up in a low-income Hispanic household where survival shaped every decision, and dreaming past immediate needs felt like a luxury. My family lived in an overcrowded home where five siblings shared one bathroom and I shared a bedroom with both of my sisters. As the middle child, I often became the bridge in the household—translating for my parents, helping navigate language barriers, and supporting my brother with autism. Our home was filled with love, but also with financial stress, limited opportunities, and the constant reminder that college was something other families talked about, not ours. My plans after high school were simple: work. Not because I lacked ambition, but because I had responsibilities. I worked to help my family afford food, to cover my car and insurance, and to contribute to the therapy and support my autistic brother needed. College felt impossible when we could barely keep up with bills. Then my mother suffered a stroke and became bedridden for months. Soon after, our home caught fire, displacing us and taking two years to rebuild. In moments like these, education wasn’t just delayed—it had to be sacrificed for survival. Still, architecture stayed quietly in the back of my mind. I entered the construction field, learning documentation, technical workflows, contractor communication, and the systems behind buildings. But no matter how skilled I became, I couldn’t move up. I watched new graduates—who required training—step into roles I already knew how to perform. But I was overlooked because my résumé said “some college.” I was a young-looking, as a 5'2" Latina woman without a bachelor's degree in an industry that doesn’t always take people like me seriously. That realization hurt, but it also pushed me toward something bigger. In my 30s, I finally made the decision to return to college. It wasn’t easy—far from it. I am now a mother balancing architecture school, financial strain, and the exhaustion that comes from raising a baby while studying late into the night. Childcare is one of my biggest challenges; trusting strangers with my one-year-old and paying high fees while living on one income is terrifying. My days are spent caring for my daughter while my husband works, and my evenings are dedicated to class, returning home at 6 p.m. to make dinner, bathe her, and study once she sleeps. I often work with limited tools and rely on borrowing supplies or using scraps for models, but I never let that stop me. These challenges have not discouraged me—they have strengthened my purpose. I want to use architecture to uplift communities like the one I grew up in: low-income families who deserve safe housing, thoughtful design, and dignity. I want to help build sustainable neighborhoods, advocate for families with disabilities, and represent Latina voices in a profession where we are severely underrepresented. My journey has been shaped by obstacles, but also by resilience. I am not just earning a degree; I am breaking cycles, rewriting my family’s story, and building a future where my daughter will grow up knowing that nothing is out of reach—not even the dreams her mother once had to delay.

One of the biggest obstacles I have overcome is returning to college in my thirties as a first-generation Latina mother, while balancing work, financial responsibility, and the demands of architecture school. My path has not been traditional, but it has taught me the meaning of determination and leadership in ways that have shaped my future career and my commitment to serving my community. After high school, I planned to go to college, but my family needed financial stability. I went straight into the workforce and eventually built a career in construction administration—managing , government submittals, site coordination, and technical documentation. I spent years supporting architects, engineers, and contractors, always working behind the scenes. But deep down, I knew I wanted to be the one designing the buildings, not just processing the paperwork. When I finally made the decision to return to school, nothing about it was easy. I was a new mother, working multiple jobs, and navigating higher education entirely on my own for the first time. I did not have the same resources as younger students my age—no drafting computer, no expensive software, no financial safety net. Instead of giving up, I learned how to hand-draft everything from scratch. My site plans, sections, and models were all created using scrap materials I collected from classmates. My professors were surprised that my work was done completely by hand, but for me, it was proof that resourcefulness and grit can replace any tool I can’t afford. Leadership, for me, has never been about a title—it has been about showing up consistently, even when it is difficult. It has meant supporting classmates who struggle, especially other first-generation students who feel out of place. It has meant becoming an example for my daughter by showing her that education has no age limit and that women can choose their own future. And it has meant using my professional background in construction to help peers understand technical concepts and drawing standards. These experiences have shaped my commitment to serving my community through my future career in architecture. Growing up in working-class, immigrant neighborhoods, I saw firsthand how the built environment impacts people’s safety, confidence, and opportunities. My goal is to design buildings and public spaces that uplift underserved communities—safe housing, culturally affirming spaces, and accessible environments for families like mine. Overcoming obstacles has not only strengthened my resilience; it has given me a leadership style rooted in empathy, perseverance, and community care. Like Jimmy Cardenas, I want my work to protect, empower, and support the people around me. I am not just pursuing a degree—I am building the foundation for a career dedicated to making a meaningful difference.

I grew up in a working-class, first-generation Mexican American family where hard work was expected, but opportunities were not guaranteed. College wasn’t something that felt accessible or realistic after high school. Instead, I went straight into the workforce, eventually finding myself in construction administration, learning how buildings come together from the technical side, government submittals, site coordination, structural questions, and the everyday problem-solving that keeps projects moving. I didn’t know it then, but those experiences were quietly shaping my future. Today, I am an undergraduate architecture student in Texas, a field that blends art, technology, and community impact in a way that feels deeply personal. As a mother, a Latina, and a returning student in my 30s, pursuing architecture is more than a career choice—it is a commitment to create spaces that uplift communities like the one I grew up in. One of the most meaningful parts of my journey has been learning architecture without the resources many students take for granted. I hand-drafted my site plans, floor plans, and sections because I couldn’t afford a drafting computer or software. I built my models entirely from scraps donated or discarded by others. Instead of setbacks, these challenges taught me resourcefulness, patience, and an appreciation for the craft. Professors recognized my work and often selected it for pin-ups, not because of perfect tools, but because of dedication and the heart I put into every project. Architecture has shown me that design is not just about beautiful buildings—it is about equity, access, culture, and belonging. I want my career to address disparities in underserved neighborhoods where schools, parks, housing, and public spaces are often neglected. Growing up, I saw how the built environment reflected inequality directly. Poor lighting, unsafe sidewalks, cramped apartments, lack of greenery—these conditions shape a person’s sense of worth and possibility. I want to design in a way that interrupts that cycle. Through my architecture career, I plan to make a positive difference by focusing on community-centered design, including affordable housing, mixed-use developments that support families, and public spaces that encourage connection. My goal is to become a licensed architect who advocates for culturally informed design—spaces that reflect the identity and history of the people who live in them. Long-term, I hope to start a practice that not only designs buildings but mentors young designers of color, especially those who may feel architecture is not for them. I want to show that you can come from humble beginnings, take an unconventional path, raise a child, work full-time, and still build a future in this field. I believe architecture is a service to the community. By continuing my education and pursuing licensure, I intend to use my skills to make environments safer, healthier, more inclusive, and more inspiring. My goal is simple: to make the world better, one thoughtful space at a time.

Prompt: “What is your engineering major, and what is your passion behind wanting to pursue it?” Although my degree is in Architecture, my passion is rooted in the same problem-solving, technical reasoning, and systems-thinking that define engineering. Architecture is a field built on engineering foundations ; structural logic, material science, thermal performance, environmental systems, and human-centered design. I chose this pathway because I wanted to combine the creativity of design with the analytical discipline of engineering to shape the built environment in a meaningful way. My passion for the technical side of buildings began long before I entered college. My father worked in construction his entire life, and from childhood I watched him open walls, measure load-bearing beams, and troubleshoot structural issues on the spot. I didn’t know it then, but I was learning engineering principles with every remodel he worked on. I learned how mechanical systems breathe life into a structure, how framing transfers load, how precision determines safety, and how a building fails when systems do not work together. These early experiences formed the foundation of my interest in the built environment and gave me the motivation to pursue a field where design meets technical problem-solving. Before returning to school, I worked in construction administration, managing government submittals, technical documentation, and coordination between architects, engineers, and contractors. I saw firsthand how engineering decisions shape every aspect of a building’s performance. It showed me that good design is never just about appearance. It is about structure, systems, efficiency, safety, and the people who rely on those systems every day. That experience ignited my passion for gaining a deeper understanding of how buildings work, not just how they look. In architecture school, I have gravitated toward the engineering-heavy parts of the curriculum: environmental systems, building technology, structural concepts, and technical drawing. Without access to expensive software, I hand-drafted all my plans, sections, and site drawings, which forced me to think like an engineer—digging into scale, dimension, performance, and precise line work. My professors often expressed surprise that my technical drawings were completed entirely by hand. Those moments showed me that resourcefulness and determination are just as important as tools. My long-term goal is to become a licensed architect with a strong technical foundation who can collaborate closely with engineers to design buildings that are safe, sustainable, and equitable for underserved communities. I want to contribute to a future where engineering and design work together to solve real social problems. My passion comes from the belief that the built environment shapes lives. Whether you call it architecture or engineering, my goal is the same: to build a world where structures are not only functional, but uplifting—where design becomes a tool for safety, opportunity, and human dignity.