I am terrible with names. It is often how I introduce myself, because I know I will forget by the time someone finishes saying theirs, and I would rather acknowledge it than pretend otherwise and sit with that familiar wave of panic a few seconds later. I try—I really do—but names slip from me in a way that nothing else ever does. I can confidently say I have a strong memory, of course, if we ignore that small detail. I seem to remember the most random, specific things about people: what they were wearing the first time I met them, something mentioned once that they do not even remember themselves, conversations we have had word for word, even quirks they do not realize they have. My memory works for pretty much everything other than names. Meeting one of my closest friends, for example: when we first met, I asked for their number and had them write it down with their name on a small piece of paper so I could practice later—smart, right? The problem was that one of the letters in their name looked like an “a” but could also easily be an “o,” and I confidently chose the wrong option. I committed to it completely. I called them by the wrong name for far too long. What made it worse—or maybe better—is that they never corrected me. I think, partly, they found it funny, and partly, it became such a consistent fact about me that it no longer felt necessary to fix. Meanwhile, I was convinced I had it right the entire time and even felt really proud of how quickly I had “learned” it. It was not until nearly a year later, when I corrected someone else who mispronounced their name, that the truth finally came out. I had been wrong from the very beginning. They admitted it while laughing, saying they had no idea where I had gotten my version from. I just stood there realizing that my confidence had been entirely misplaced. I still maintain, however, that the blame was at least partially shared. Another example—and maybe a better one—comes from my current friend group, whom I met during freshman year in college. I warned them early on that names were not my strength, though none of them really believed me at first. That changed quickly. I tried a new strategy this time—looking at Instagram profiles before meeting up, mentally rehearsing names before conversations—but none of it fully stuck in real time. Eventually, I slipped up and called someone the wrong name in person, and from that point on, they began asking me, as a joke, “What’s my name?” every time we met. I can confidently say I do not forget their names anymore… mostly because they made sure I did not get the chance to. Despite all of this, I have learned something important about myself. Even if I struggle with names, I rarely forget the person behind them. I remember the small details, the moments of laughter, the things that made someone unique to me in the first place. My memory may not always work in the most convenient way, but it holds onto what matters most to me. And in its own way, that has shaped how I connect with people more than any name ever could. At the end of the day, I think who someone is tells you a lot more than their name.

Not too long ago, my grandmother used calendars from a local bakery as paper for school because she could not afford anything else. Eventually, the constant shaming and embarrassment became too much, and she stopped going altogether. She died in her forties without ever finishing school from a heart attack because a doctor assumed she was too poor to deserve care. In my family, education was never something guaranteed. It was something that, for most people, you could not afford to choose because survival came first. My mom refused to let that story continue. She started working full time at fifteen years old at SEECH, the educational branch of the government in Chihuahua, Mexico, where we are from. She did not attend school traditionally. Instead, she studied on her own and took the exams repeatedly until she passed. Despite every obstacle around her, she kept going. She eventually went to college with full marks, worked her way from secretary to lawyer, earned a master’s degree, later studied psychology, and took whatever jobs she could to support us: sewing, selling perfumes, making food, catalog sales—anything and everything. And despite all of that, stability was never guaranteed. The greatest sacrifice she ever made for me was leaving behind everything she had ever known so I could have opportunities she knew did not exist for us in Mexico. Three years ago, we immigrated to the United States with only each other. The thing is, my mom does not speak English, and I do. Almost overnight, our roles shifted. I became the one navigating systems neither of us fully understood—making phone calls, translating appointments, filling out forms, enrolling myself in school, and helping manage rent and taxes. What I began to understand was that the barriers we faced were not only linguistic. They were cultural, informational, and systemic. Even here, in the promised land of the American Dream, the same obstacles we thought we had left behind still followed us. That realization shaped my sense of purpose completely. I became involved in community service through translation, education, healthcare, and advocacy work. I served as a medical translator, supported underserved families through food distribution and community outreach, including translating aid and resource materials into Spanish for programs distributed across county school systems. I also translated correspondence for incarcerated Spanish-speaking individuals seeking educational resources, taught Spanish to older adult learners, and helped organize community events and donations. Now, in college, I continue that work through research focused on Latino families, and soon I will mentor students navigating many of the same barriers I once faced myself while continuing to help my community gain access to resources. I found what I want to dedicate my life to, and in order to do it well, I need more than intention. I need knowledge. That is why higher education means so much to me. It is not simply a path forward, but a way to understand systems deeply enough to create real change—effectively and responsibly. My goal is to build something that lasts beyond me. I want to create a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping immigrant and underserved families navigate healthcare, education, and community systems with clarity and support—not as an abstract mission, but as a continuation of everything that was done so that I could get here. But that does not mean I do not need help myself, and that is where opportunities like this become everything.

Not too long ago, my grandmother used calendars from a local bakery as paper for school because she could not afford anything else. Eventually, the constant shaming and embarrassment became too much, and she stopped going altogether. She died in her forties without ever finishing school. In my family, education was never something guaranteed. It was something that, for most, you could not afford to choose because survival came first. My mom refused to let that story continue. She started working full time at fifteen years old at SEECH, the educational branch of the government in Chihuahua, Mexico, where we are from. She did not attend school traditionally. Instead, she studied independently and took the exams repeatedly until she passed. Despite every obstacle around her, she kept going. She eventually went to college with full marks, worked her way from secretary to lawyer, earned a master’s degree, later studied psychology, and took whatever jobs she could to support us: sewing, selling perfumes, making food, catalog sales—anything and everything. And despite all of that, stability was never guaranteed. The greatest sacrifice she ever made for me was leaving behind everything she had ever known so I could have opportunities she knew did not exist for us in Mexico. Three years ago, we immigrated to the United States with only each other. By chance, we ended up in Morgantown, West Virginia, a place that felt unfamiliar in every possible way. The thing is, my mom does not speak English, and I do. Almost overnight, our roles shifted. I became the one navigating systems neither of us fully understood—making phone calls, translating appointments, filling out forms, enrolling myself in school, and helping manage rent and taxes. What I began to understand was that the barriers we faced were not only linguistic. They were cultural, informational, and systemic. Even here, in the promised land of the American Dream, the same obstacles we thought we had left behind still followed us. That realization shaped my sense of purpose completely. At Scott’s Run Settlement House, I completed more than 300 hours distributing food and essential resources while translating materials for county-wide programs reaching thousands of students. There, I became the first volunteer ever nominated for and awarded the Byron and Elva Mary (Shaffer) Humphreys Memorial Scholarship. At Milan Puskar Health Right, a free clinic, I served as a medical translator during patient intake and appointments. Through the Appalachian Prison Book Project, I translated letters for incarcerated Spanish-speaking individuals across six states. I also taught Spanish to older adult learners through the Osher Lifelong Learning Institute and helped organize community events and donations at Busy Bees Community Center. These experiences eventually led me toward research and advocacy. For AP Seminar, I explored the challenges Mexican immigrants face in the United States and how those barriers can be addressed. For AP Research, I conducted original research on racism in homogeneous spaces, focusing on lived experiences and perceptions in West Virginia. I earned the highest AP score in both classes and the AP Capstone Diploma. Now, in college in Pittsburgh, I work as a Research Assistant for the Recipe for Success Program within the Food for Thought project, focusing on improving literacy and nutrition outcomes for Latino preschool children and their families. Next semester, through the SALUD program, I will continue serving as a medical translator in clinics, and through TRIO Student Support Services, I will mentor students navigating the same barriers I once faced. I found what I want to dedicate my life to, and in order to do it well, I need more than intention. I need knowledge. That is why higher education means so much to me. It is not simply a path forward, but a way to understand the systems that shape people’s lives deeply enough to challenge them responsibly. Without understanding, even well-intentioned action can cause harm. I want to be someone who has taken the time to learn before acting, so that what I build actually serves the people it is meant for. My goal is to build something that lasts beyond me. I want to create a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping immigrant and underserved families navigate healthcare, education, and community systems with clarity and support—not as an abstract mission, but as a continuation of everything that was done so that I could get here.

The American Dream is a tale of sacrifice, resilience, and a whole lot of luck. It is a story that is almost magical in the way it is told—meant to give hope, meant to encourage people to do their best, meant to suggest that effort alone is enough, even when, for most people, it is not. I find it to be a little like Santa Claus. A tale we are all told growing up: magical, comforting, and full of promise. It teaches you to believe that if you are good, if you try hard enough, something good will come to you in return. But eventually, you learn the truth. Santa is not separate from reality—Santa is your parents. And sometimes, your parents simply cannot afford to give you what other children receive. Not because they do not want to, and not because you did anything wrong, but because they do not have magic. Sometimes all they can afford is “coal,” not as punishment, but as reality. And even that, most times, comes from effort, sacrifice, and trying their best within limits they did not choose—just like you may do one day. I learned this not in theory, but in practice. My mom, my “Santa,” had it hard long before we ever arrived in the United States. She was a single mother in Mexico who came from a family too poor to give her much besides resilience. She started working full time at fifteen years old and took the prepa exams on her own without even attending school until she passed. Somehow, she kept believing anyway. She went on to college with full marks, worked her way from secretary to lawyer, earned a master’s degree, later studied psychology, and took whatever jobs she could to support us: sewing, selling perfumes, making food, catalog sales—anything and everything. Through all of it, she raised me to believe the impossible was possible. Then we arrived in the United States three years ago, searching for a better life in the so-called land of promise, and suddenly so much of what she had built seemed to disappear. She does not speak English, her degrees are not recognized here, and the woman who once handled everything with confidence suddenly had to rely on me to translate the world around her. Watching that happen changed the way I understood opportunity forever. Here I realized I was missing information, access, guidance, connections, and stability that others often take for granted. Much like for Santa in the American Dream very few are able to truly live it the way it was told. And still, I continue forward. Not because the story is perfect, but because I understand exactly what it costs—and what it means to keep believing in it anyway. I find that worth it. My mom spent her entire life trying to create “magic” for me even when she had almost nothing to work with herself. She sacrificed comfort, stability, recognition, and pieces of her own dreams so I could have opportunities she never did. I think that is what the American Dream truly is to me: not perfection or guaranteed success, but refusing to stop believing that a better future can exist. So I believe—fully and stubbornly—that if I keep showing up, keep learning, and keep pushing forward even when things feel impossible, something meaningful will happen. And if it does not, then the journey itself will have taught me how to build a life that still matters anyway. I believe in the American Dream and maybe that is the closest thing to magic there really is.

As cliché as it may sound, my mom has always been the strongest person I know. Long before I understood what resilience meant, I watched her live it every day. It was always the two of us. If she was working, I was there. If she went out with her friends, I went with her. I grew up beside her at offices, work trips, classrooms, and street stands across Chihuahua, México, where we were both born and raised. People used to joke that I was her llaverito, a little copy of her trailing behind. But the truth is, we only really had each other—so she never really had a choice, not that she would have chosen anything else. My mom started working full time at fifteen years old. She came from a family where poverty was not an abstract concept but a daily reality you could not escape. My grandmother died young without ever really going to school, there was no money and no opportunities. My mom took the prepa exams on her own, without going to school, until she passed. She went on to college with full marks, worked her way from secretary to lawyer, earned a master’s degree, later studied psychology, and took whatever jobs she could to support us: sewing, selling perfumes, making food, catalog sales—anything and everything. Through all of it, she raised me to believe the impossible possible. I think the best way to understand us is through something we called “día feliz.” No matter how hard life got, we would decide it was going to be a happy day anyway. Usually, that meant getting elotes together. After exhausting workdays where she was too tired to cook, or after stressful weeks when we needed something to hold on to, or even on good days just to celebrate, we would sit side by side eating elotes preparados and laughing like nothing else mattered. Looking back, it was never really just about the food. It was about choosing joy together even when life gave us every reason not to—or all of them. Then, in 2022, everything changed. After being forced out of our house and finding ourselves in life or death danger, we realized that staying was not an option. My mom wanted to give me a chance at a safer future. We left Mexico and arrived in the United States with almost nothing but each other. I thought life here would feel familiar. Instead, it felt like everything I knew disappeared overnight. For the first time in my life, I watched my mom become quiet. Back home, she was outspoken, confident, and capable of handling anything. Here, language turned simple tasks into obstacles, and everything she had built for us got lost in translation. Because she does not speak English, our roles changed quickly. I became the one in charge—making phone calls, filling out forms, handling appointments, enrolling myself in school, managing taxes, and translating our lives into a language she could understand. But even in that shift, I knew that though it seemed impossible to manage it was possible. We do not really have the same elotes here in the United States like we did in Mexico. But “día feliz” still exists. Sometimes it is eating together a homemade meal after everything goes wrong. Sometimes it is a quiet conversation about something random. Sometimes it is just sitting together in silence, knowing we made it through another day. The tradition changed, but the meaning never did. Happiness, for us, was never just about elotes. It was about having each other.

Being a first-generation college student, to me, felt like learning a new language, except it was one you had to discover on your own, bit by bit. I am originally from Mexico, and only three years ago, I arrived in the United States as the first person in my family to immigrate here and pursue higher education. From the moment I arrived, it felt like everyone around me possessed a guidebook that I had never been given. They all understood the education system to some degree. Meanwhile, something as simple as the word “freshman” was vocabulary I had yet to literally learn. Everywhere I looked, people seemed to carry this inside knowledge I was not privy to, and constantly trying to decode an unfamiliar world became one of the most isolating experiences of my life. At the same time, I carried responsibilities far beyond school. Because my mom does not speak English, I had to take responsibility for my family. I handled phone calls, appointments, forms, emails, and conversations that determined everything. I even signed myself up for school when we had just arrived, managed our rent, and to this day still complete our taxes. I learned how to navigate systems that intimidated even adults while still trying to navigate adolescence myself and the shock of having no idea what was going on in a country thousands of miles away from the place I had always considered home. Arriving in the United States also gave me labels I had never really thought much about before: low-income, first-generation, immigrant, woman of color. Those labels often meant feeling and many times being treated differently in every room I entered. There were moments when they felt heavier than my ambitions, when goals like mine seemed like something designed for other people, and sometimes it still does. Yet those experiences are exactly what shaped my determination. I refuse to let unfamiliarity become a limitation. Instead, I taught myself how to ask questions, seek opportunities, and advocate for myself even when I felt out of place. I used to stumble over my words constantly until, at some point, I stopped. Now, in college, I have discovered that I am not alone and that the opportunities I was always promised truly do exist. One of the most meaningful discoveries along that journey was finding support systems I never even imagined existed, like TRIO Student Support Services. Through TRIO SSS, I found mentorship, guidance, and a community that reminded me I belonged in higher education just as much as anyone else. Here, I realized there were others like me and people who wanted us to succeed. Being first-generation is not simply about earning a degree. Every accomplishment I achieve represents resilience, sacrifice, and hope that is not just mine. It means showing myself and others that success is possible even when everything feels like it is in an entirely different language. In college, I plan to major in Public Health and minor in Hispanic Language and Culture as I work toward becoming a doctor. My long-term goal is to create a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping immigrant and underserved communities in the United States, especially families who feel excluded from opportunities because of language barriers, financial struggles, or systems that were never built for them to navigate. I want to create the kind of support network I once needed myself. More importantly, I want people like me, who have been told over and over that their dreams were unrealistic or “delusional,” to realize that they can make it, just as I plan to.