At a very young age, I was diagnosed with a seemingly terminal condition, cluelessness syndrome. In my Hispanic household, finding a moment of quiet and solitude was a rare treasure. My parents came to the United States from Colombia with 20 dollars in their pockets and hope for a brighter future -- not just for themselves but their children. They didn’t want my siblings and me to lack the years of education they did, and thus placed a great emphasis on academics. It felt like they were living vicariously through me, and this immense pressure catapulted me into a spiral of failures and self-condiment. Although my parents had pure intentions, catapulting us into the American school system without guidance took a toll. We felt immense pressure to perform well, yet lacked the means to do so. I felt helpless. As I progressed into my high school career, I could feel the weight and overwhelming anxiety of having to tackle the college application process by myself. As well as the crushing fear of failing of wasting the opportunity that my parents had sacrificed everything for. My grandmother was the only one who saw me struggling to breathe underneath the mountain of failures and one day she took me to her community gardening center where I used to spend most of my time with her. I asked the woman with weathered hands and a dirt-streaked green apron for the smallest area of dirt, as I did not have much hope in myself and did not want to steal any spaces from those who did have the ability to successfully grow a cucumber. I was determined to prove myself. Over the next few months I spent every day in my 7x7 patch, toiling tirelessly to craft the best plot of land I could. That small patch became my safe haven. I finally felt in control and saw the fruits of my labor directly. Walking home covered head-to-toe in fertilized dirt was the most powerful I've ever felt. My secret garden helped me regain a sense of control in my life. Carefully building the sections where each of my plants would grow, made me realize that I can do the same for myself. I began to relate cultivating earth to cultivating my own life. I can acknowledge my limitations, while still doing everything in my power to better myself each day. I owe it to myself, my siblings, and my parents to embark on a journey of growth with the same fervor I gave to my garden. Fortunately for me, my support system overpowered my cluelessness and my parents were right there with me googling from what is financial aid to how to sign up for a college tour. With each weed I plucked from the ground, it felt as though I was pulling away all my past failures and self-condemnation that my lack of success was all that I would ever know, clearing space for new beginnings. The fence, once stained with the wear and tear of time, now gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, a bright backdrop beaming with the beauty of possibility. Each plot of earth held the promise of life, waiting to break through my freshly turned soil in a symphony of blooms and foliage. I could almost envision the garden coming to life before my eyes, as well as mine.

At a very young age, I was diagnosed with a seemingly terminal condition, cluelessness syndrome. In my Hispanic household, finding a moment of quiet and solitude was a rare treasure. My parents came to the United States from Colombia with 20 dollars in their pockets and hope for a brighter future -- not just for themselves but their children. They didn’t want my siblings and me to lack the years of education they did, and thus placed a great emphasis on academics. It felt like they were living vicariously through me, and this immense pressure catapulted me into a spiral of failures and self-condiment. Although my parents had pure intentions, catapulting us into the American school system without guidance took a toll. We felt immense pressure to perform well, yet lacked the means to do so. I felt helpless. As I progressed into my high school career, I could feel the weight and overwhelming anxiety of having to tackle the college application process by myself. As well as the crushing fear of failing of wasting the opportunity that my parents had sacrificed everything for. My grandmother was the only one who saw me struggling to breathe underneath the mountain of failures and one day she took me to her community gardening center where I used to spend most of my time with her. I asked the woman with weathered hands and a dirt-streaked green apron for the smallest area of dirt, as I did not have much hope in myself and did not want to steal any spaces from those who did have the ability to successfully grow a cucumber. I was determined to prove myself. Over the next few months I spent every day in my 7x7 patch, toiling tirelessly to craft the best plot of land I could. That small patch became my safe haven. I finally felt in control and saw the fruits of my labor directly. Walking home covered head-to-toe in fertilized dirt was the most powerful I've ever felt. My secret garden helped me regain a sense of control in my life. Carefully building the sections where each of my plants would grow, made me realize that I can do the same for myself. I began to relate cultivating earth to cultivating my own life. I can acknowledge my limitations, while still doing everything in my power to better myself each day. I owe it to myself, my siblings, and my parents to embark on a journey of growth with the same fervor I gave to my garden. Fortunately for me, my support system overpowered my cluelessness and my parents were right there with me googling from what is financial aid to how to sign up for a college tour. With each weed I plucked from the ground, it felt as though I was pulling away all my past failures and self-condemnation that my lack of success was all that I would ever know, clearing space for new beginnings. The fence, once stained with the wear and tear of time, now gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, a bright backdrop beaming with the beauty of possibility. Each plot of earth held the promise of life, waiting to break through my freshly turned soil in a symphony of blooms and foliage. I could almost envision the garden coming to life before my eyes, as well as mine.

At a very young age, I was diagnosed with a seemingly terminal condition, cluelessness syndrome. In my Hispanic household, finding a moment of quiet and solitude was a rare treasure. My parents came to the United States from Colombia with 20 dollars in their pockets and hope for a brighter future -- not just for themselves but their children. They didn’t want my siblings and me to lack the years of education they did, and thus placed a great emphasis on academics. It felt like they were living vicariously through me, and this immense pressure catapulted me into a spiral of failures and self-condiment. Although my parents had pure intentions, catapulting us into the American school system without guidance took a toll. We felt immense pressure to perform well, yet lacked the means to do so. I felt helpless. As I progressed into my high school career, I could feel the weight and overwhelming anxiety of having to tackle the college application process by myself. As well as the crushing fear of failing of wasting the opportunity that my parents had sacrificed everything for. My grandmother was the only one who saw me struggling to breathe underneath the mountain of failures and one day she took me to her community gardening center where I used to spend most of my time with her. I asked the woman with weathered hands and a dirt-streaked green apron for the smallest area of dirt, as I did not have much hope in myself and did not want to steal any spaces from those who did have the ability to successfully grow a cucumber. I was determined to prove myself. Over the next few months I spent every day in my 7x7 patch, toiling tirelessly to craft the best plot of land I could. That small patch became my safe haven. I finally felt in control and saw the fruits of my labor directly. Walking home covered head-to-toe in fertilized dirt was the most powerful I've ever felt. My secret garden helped me regain a sense of control in my life. Carefully building the sections where each of my plants would grow, made me realize that I can do the same for myself. I began to relate cultivating earth to cultivating my own life. I can acknowledge my limitations, while still doing everything in my power to better myself each day. I owe it to myself, my siblings, and my parents to embark on a journey of growth with the same fervor I gave to my garden. Fortunately for me, my support system overpowered my cluelessness and my parents were right there with me googling from what is financial aid to how to sign up for a college tour. With each weed I plucked from the ground, it felt as though I was pulling away all my past failures and self-condemnation that my lack of success was all that I would ever know, clearing space for new beginnings. The fence, once stained with the wear and tear of time, now gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, a bright backdrop beaming with the beauty of possibility. Each plot of earth held the promise of life, waiting to break through my freshly turned soil in a symphony of blooms and foliage. I could almost envision the garden coming to life before my eyes, as well as mine.

At a very young age, I was diagnosed with a seemingly terminal condition, cluelessness syndrome. In my Hispanic household, finding a moment of quiet and solitude was a rare treasure. My parents came to the United States from Colombia with 20 dollars in their pockets and hope for a brighter future -- not just for themselves but their children. They didn’t want my siblings and me to lack the years of education they did, and thus placed a great emphasis on academics. It felt like they were living vicariously through me, and this immense pressure catapulted me into a spiral of failures and self-condiment. Although my parents had pure intentions, catapulting us into the American school system without guidance took a toll. We felt immense pressure to perform well, yet lacked the means to do so. I felt helpless. As I progressed into my high school career, I could feel the weight and overwhelming anxiety of having to tackle the college application process by myself. As well as the crushing fear of failing of wasting the opportunity that my parents had sacrificed everything for. My grandmother was the only one who saw me struggling to breathe underneath the mountain of failures and one day she took me to her community gardening center where I used to spend most of my time with her. I asked the woman with weathered hands and a dirt-streaked green apron for the smallest area of dirt, as I did not have much hope in myself and did not want to steal any spaces from those who did have the ability to successfully grow a cucumber. I was determined to prove myself. Over the next few months I spent every day in my 7x7 patch, toiling tirelessly to craft the best plot of land I could. That small patch became my safe haven. I finally felt in control and saw the fruits of my labor directly. Walking home covered head-to-toe in fertilized dirt was the most powerful I've ever felt. My secret garden helped me regain a sense of control in my life. Carefully building the sections where each of my plants would grow, made me realize that I can do the same for myself. I began to relate cultivating earth to cultivating my own life. I can acknowledge my limitations, while still doing everything in my power to better myself each day. I owe it to myself, my siblings, and my parents to embark on a journey of growth with the same fervor I gave to my garden. Fortunately for me, my support system overpowered my cluelessness and my parents were right there with me googling from what is financial aid to how to sign up for a college tour. With each weed I plucked from the ground, it felt as though I was pulling away all my past failures and self-condemnation that my lack of success was all that I would ever know, clearing space for new beginnings. The fence, once stained with the wear and tear of time, now gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, a bright backdrop beaming with the beauty of possibility. Each plot of earth held the promise of life, waiting to break through my freshly turned soil in a symphony of blooms and foliage. I could almost envision the garden coming to life before my eyes, as well as mine.

Since 4th grade, I have dreaded the last day of school. The ear-splitting sound of my alarm clock made me actually miss the sound of the school bell blaring through the hallway. I blindly hit my snooze button, marking the first of many early morning thoughts racing through my head, the main one being “Should I call out sick?” Summer conditioning had officially started, which is every student athlete's worst nightmare (at least the still sane ones.) My groggy body felt completely drained of energy and life. I struggled to open my eyes, still stuck to my bed's magnetic pull, running through every excuse to avoid getting up at that ungodly hour. However, I still always manage to rise every morning to put my body through the self-inflicted torture that is cross-country pre-season. Cross-country running is a sport that blends body and mind, challenging and pushing myself to exceed what my body is physically capable of doing. Every day’s new goal is to exceed what I did yesterday. I have known the agony of “mind over matter” and learned the harsh realities of my physical and mental limitations but I have and will always continue lacing my dirt-streaked sneakers onto my aching ankles. As convincing as my morning doubts are, I do not give in. Through aching joints and broken spirits and through adverse weather and unfavorable odds in a race, I run and fight to accomplish my goal, and with patience, I know I will make it to where I want to be. On race days, time slips away in mere seconds, and I suddenly find myself at the starting line, a human barrier brimming with anticipation. My heart races with a nervous energy that overwhelms my heart, as if it’s ready to erupt, while my legs propel me forward with a speed that would outpace my coordination. Starring anxiously at the gunman, his authoritative stance dominated the track. Then, as the sharp crack of the starter pistol went off, all my anxious nausea fades and I surge forward, buoyed by a wave of relief. In that moment, I am reminded of my ambition and hunger for success that will forever push me to get to the victory line. With amenities such as a high metabolism and a functional car, I have no logical reason to use my feet, especially if I lack a destination. I do not run to go down a size in my jeans, as my body does not need to. And these draining runs are not anything equivalent to a quick jog toward a bookstore. I am constantly challenging myself to run faster towards what I have craved to feel my entire life: success. With every second taken off my personal record, I inch closer to feeling worthy of the possibility of victory. When I run, the numbness turns into hope. When the world has finally gone quiet, I, Camila Gonzalez, will come in loud and sprinting. My mind becomes free of the same self-doubt that pushes me down towards the ground and I finally feel self-assured that on the road of life, when others may be walking, I will be running. I will run through every aching ankle and finally come out with the confidence to fully achieve the glory I have been chasing since I was eight years old. Every mile conquered is a testament to the same thing: all my sleepless mornings have allowed me to fly.

Since 4th grade, I have dreaded the last day of school. The ear-splitting sound of my alarm clock made me actually miss the sound of the school bell blaring through the hallway. I blindly hit my snooze button, marking the first of many early morning thoughts racing through my head, the main one being “Should I call out sick?” Summer conditioning had officially started, which is every student athlete's worst nightmare (at least the still sane ones.) My groggy body felt completely drained of energy. I struggled to open my eyes, still stuck to my bed's magnetic pull, running through every excuse to avoid getting up at that ungodly hour. However, I still always manage to rise every morning to put my body through the self-inflicted torture that is pre-season. Cross-country running is a sport that blends body and mind, challenging and pushing myself to exceed what my body is physically capable of doing. Every day’s new goal is to exceed what I did yesterday. I have known the agony of “mind over matter” and learned the harsh realities of my physical and mental limitations but I have and will always continue lacing my dirt-streaked sneakers onto my aching ankles. As convincing as my morning doubts are, I do not give in. Through aching joints and broken spirits and through adverse weather and unfavorable odds in a race, I run and fight to accomplish my goal, and with patience, I know I will make it to where I want to be. On race days, time slips away in mere seconds, and I suddenly find myself at the starting line, a human barrier brimming with anticipation. Then, as the sharp crack of the starter pistol went off, all my anxious nausea fades and I surge forward, buoyed by a wave of relief. In that moment, I am reminded of my ambition and hunger for success that will forever push me to get to the victory line. With amenities such as a high metabolism and a functional car, I have no logical reason to use my feet, especially if I lack a destination. I am constantly challenging myself to run faster towards what I have craved to feel my entire life: success. With every second taken off my personal record, I inch closer to feeling worthy of the possibility of victory. When I run, the numbness turns into hope. When the world has finally gone quiet, I, Camila Gonzalez, will come in loud and sprinting. My mind becomes free of the same self-doubt that pushes me down towards the ground and I finally feel self-assured that on the road of life, when others may be walking, I will be running. I will run through every aching ankle and finally come out with the confidence to fully achieve the glory I have been chasing since I was eight years old. Every mile conquered is a testament to the same thing: all my sleepless mornings have allowed me to fly.

At a very young age, I was diagnosed with a seemingly terminal condition, cluelessness syndrome. In my Hispanic household, finding a moment of quiet and solitude was a rare treasure. My parents came to the United States from Colombia with 20 dollars in their pockets and hope for a brighter future -- not just for themselves but their children. They didn’t want my siblings and me to lack the years of education they did, and thus placed a great emphasis on academics. It felt like they were living vicariously through me, and this immense pressure catapulted me into a spiral of failures and self-condiment. Although my parents had pure intentions, catapulting us into the American school system without guidance took a toll. We felt immense pressure to perform well, yet lacked the means to do so. I felt helpless. As I progressed into my high school career, I could feel the weight and overwhelming anxiety of having to tackle the college application process by myself. As well as the crushing fear of failing of wasting the opportunity that my parents had sacrificed everything for. My grandmother was the only one who saw me struggling to breathe underneath the mountain of failures and one day she took me to her community gardening center where I used to spend most of my time with her. I asked the woman with weathered hands and a dirt-streaked green apron for the smallest area of dirt, as I did not have much hope in myself and did not want to steal any spaces from those who did have the ability to successfully grow a cucumber. I was determined to prove myself. Over the next few months I spent every day in my 7x7 patch, toiling tirelessly to craft the best plot of land I could. That small patch became my safe haven. I finally felt in control and saw the fruits of my labor directly. Walking home covered head-to-toe in fertilized dirt was the most powerful I've ever felt. My secret garden helped me regain a sense of control in my life. Carefully building the sections where each of my plants would grow, made me realize that I can do the same for myself. I began to relate cultivating earth to cultivating my own life. I can acknowledge my limitations, while still doing everything in my power to better myself each day. I owe it to myself, my siblings, and my parents to embark on a journey of growth with the same fervor I gave to my garden. Fortunately for me, my support system overpowered my cluelessness and my parents were right there with me googling from what is financial aid to how to sign up for a college tour. With each weed I plucked from the ground, it felt as though I was pulling away all my past failures and self-condemnation that my lack of success was all that I would ever know, clearing space for new beginnings. The fence, once stained with the wear and tear of time, now gleamed with a fresh coat of paint, a bright backdrop beaming with the beauty of possibility. Each plot of earth held the promise of life, waiting to break through my freshly turned soil in a symphony of blooms and foliage. I could almost envision the garden coming to life before my eyes, as well as mine.

I never knew that a paintbrush could not only bring life to a canvas, but also to a person. My first job taught me this, a lead at my local pottery painting studio. Where I saw real change and the everlasting effects of the power of helping others the most was during my Community Option classes. After closing hours an organization called Community Options, a nonprofit that houses and employs opportunities for people with disabilities and the elderly, comes into the studio where we host a pottery painting class as a safe space for them and their creativity. This role taught me the immense impact that expressiveness and compassionate care has on enhancing the quality of an individual's lives. In the studio, I witnessed the color coming back onto people's faces with every stroke of paint and a spark of excitement for life when they saw their finished piece of art. This is when I learned the importance of fostering a safe, supportive environment where everyone feels valued and understood, as well as protecting and preserving liveliness. Working closely with clients with disabilities and the elderly ignited my passion for advocacy and healthcare. I learned to appreciate and protect the unique needs and strengths of each individual, understanding that my role extended beyond mere assistance. I started to relate shaping clay to shaping and enhancing lives for the better, and making it brighter. As I worked closely with clients with the elderly, I realized that my role extended far beyond assisting with artistic projects. I saw how thoughtful care and encouragement could uplift a person’s spirit, and I wanted to do more. The experience planted a seed in my heart that grew into a commitment to pursue a career where I could make a lasting difference. Just as I related shaping clay to shaping lives, I began to see nursing as a way to help people heal, grow, and find brightness in their lives. Nursing aligns perfectly with my desire to serve and uplift others. My goal is to become a compassionate and skilled nurse who creates safe spaces for healing, just as I did in the studio. Whether it’s offering a listening ear, advocating for patients' needs, or providing excellent medical care, I aim to be a nurse who preserves and enhances the liveliness of every individual I care for. This experience solidified my belief that fostering hope and empowerment is at the core of healthcare, and it is what drives my passion to make a difference in the lives of others through nursing. I will be the 4th generation of nurses in my family and I will be forever grateful to have inherited the daringness and passion for such a beautiful profession from my great-grandmother, grandmother, and aunt.