“SOS Venezuela” Every morning for as long as I can remember, I read this sentence spray-painted on the wall in front of my house as I left for school. As a child, I thought it was just a strange way to refer to my country, never understanding the weight behind those words. They were on every wall, in every corner of the place that taught me how to walk, speak, and think. I was born in a country that, by the time of my birth, had already endured eight years under a dictatorship. That political reality influenced my life and the outcome of every event that helped shape who I am and who I’m becoming. Growing up under a dictatorship doesn’t make childhood feel different at first. I had family dinners every Christmas, played with cousins and friends, and attended a prestigious private school. My life seemed normal, even happy. But behind my innocent perspective, things were unraveling. My dad lost his restaurant after the government demanded an outrageous bribe to let him continue operating, later accusing him of selling illegal food. My mom left her job in the medical field after going unpaid for months. While I enjoyed my daily routines, my family was slipping down the social ladder and I didn’t recognize the crisis until it was too big to ignore. The moment a child begins to see life differently than those in safer countries is when the situation escalates, and for me, that moment came during the protests of 2015–2017, some of the most violent in Venezuela’s modern history. I’d always heard adults express anger and disgust toward the regime. “I hate Maduro” was a phrase I grew up hearing and, naively, repeating. But during those protests, everything clicked. The sentence on the wall, the angry voices, the fear and frustration. Venezuelans were crying out for basic human rights: food, education, healthcare, a livable wage. All of this had been quietly stolen through corruption and lies. By that time, most Venezuelans were eating just once a day. My family included. We waited for days in endless lines to buy three food items. Monthly salaries equaled only three U.S. dollars. My uncle nearly died of tuberculosis due to a nationwide medical supply shortage. Gas was nearly impossible to find. By the end of 2017, the middle class no longer existed only the rich and the poor. My family, like so many others, was torn apart. My father moved to Chile and divorced my mother. She and I moved to Costa Rica, and eventually, to the United States. I wasn’t born in a democracy. I knew what a Molotov cocktail was before I knew how to divide numbers. But I also understood the power of singing "Abajo cadenas" (“Down chains”) in our national anthem, and how art became a form of protest in a country where free speech was illegal. I once left Venezuela feeling stripped of my identity, robbed of dreams. But over time, I realized my resentment was not toward my country, but toward those who destroyed it. Now, I would die for the land I once couldn’t wait to leave. I’m a daughter of Bolivar, the liberator of South America. I’m a fighter. And I can overcome anything, as long as I’m willing to make sacrifices along the way. After all, if the river carries rocks, I’ll pick them up. No matter how many leaves fall, the trunk stands tall. And the roots, my roots, cannot be cut.

Each day I lived in Venezuela, the nation where I was born and raised, I witnessed the slow and painful deterioration of a nation that was once ranked one of the wealthiest in the world being compared to countries like France and Germany. Venezuela, a country rich in oil and natural resources, has endured decades of corruption, mismanagement, and exploitation that has brought the nation to a critical state. Environmental crises and widespread infrastructure failure became a daily reality that affected millions of Venezuelans like me. That constant exposure to my country’s crisis shaped the way I saw the world and gave me the clarity to pursue a path that would allow me to be part of it’s reconstruction, and the one of any country going through the same struggles. I chose chemical engineering because I believe it is the key to restoring essential systems and creating sustainable solutions where they are needed most. I lived through the consequences of a country with a collapsed chemical and industrial sector that has experience a major decline in safety measures especially in the oil industries, which has caused pollution in towns and the most recent in a major lake such as the Maracaibo Lake . I saw communities go weeks without clean water and no water at all because of Venezuelan’s decaying water system that lacks maintenance. I saw families unable to access medicine because Venezuela lacks a stable pharmaceutical and chemical manufacturing base leading to medicine shortages in hospitals. The resurgence of diseases like malaria, tuberculosis, and measles, once nearly eradicated, was a direct result of that failure. These were not distant event for me in any way, they were part of my life, part of my community and it became clear to me that without a foundation in science, innovation, and infrastructure, no society can move forward. My ultimate dream is to be a chemical engineer who doesn't only work in a laboratory but one who excels in the industry, in boardrooms, and later in countries where reconstruction is dire while placing ethics and safety as my top priority. I aim to establish a green chemical manufacturing company, water treatment technologies, and carbon capture, solutions that can empower communities, revive collapsing systems, and preserve the environment. I would want to bring innovation into aspects that have been neglected and show that science can be applied to people and justice as well. My core values include resilience, responsibility, sustainability, and global equity. I have faced situations that have challenged each of these values, thus, defining my identity. As a Latina female in the STEM field, I understand the importance of representation. My goal is not simply to excel technically in my chosen field, but to do so with ethics and innovation. To me, chemical engineering is not a profession, it's a pledge to transform. It's a means by which I aim to bring back dignity and opportunity to those who have been forgotten. I hold with me a strong sense of purpose, and I stand prepared to build, to lead, and to serve through science. My path starts with schooling, but my vision extends far beyond me. I intend to distinguish myself in this field not just by what I accomplish, but by the individuals and locations I elevate in the process.