“La familia lo es todo.” Family is everything. That’s what my grandmother always said, and it’s a value that has shaped every part of who I am. Growing up, I heard her stories of surviving poverty in the hidden corners of Puerto Vallarta—the parts tourists never see. She worked three jobs to support her four younger brothers, often going without so they wouldn’t have to. When she moved to an unfamiliar country, she did it for the sake of my mother’s future. Eventually, she returned to Mexico, but not before planting the seeds of strength, sacrifice, and service in our family. To me, being Latino means carrying that legacy forward. It means never forgetting where you come from and always showing up for the people around you. My heritage isn’t just about language, food, or tradition—it’s about grit, love, and community. It’s about putting others before yourself, even when you have very little to give. Those values have shaped the way I live my life. Over the last four years, I’ve volunteered as a surf coach for children with disabilities, helping them experience the ocean’s healing power. I’ve also used my talents as a surfer and videographer to raise thousands of dollars for domestic violence shelters in Puerto Vallarta. Giving back to the community that gave me my roots has become one of the most meaningful parts of my life. It feels like I’m honoring my grandmother’s sacrifices—not just with words, but with action. I’m passionate about attending college because I know it will give me the tools to take that passion even further. I want to study film and media so I can tell stories that matter—stories that uplift communities, inspire change, and reflect the values my culture has instilled in me. I want to create content that shines a light on people who often go unseen, whether it’s a single mom fighting for a better life, a kid with special needs finding freedom in the waves, or a grandmother who gave everything so her family could dream bigger. For me, college isn’t just about personal growth—it’s about being able to serve others in more powerful ways. It’s the next step in honoring my roots, growing my voice, and continuing to live a life driven by purpose. “La comunidad lo es todo.” Community is everything. And I carry that truth with me—in my heritage, in my heart, and in every dream I chase.

With tiny hands far too small to fit into the straps of my mom’s bulky Canon Vixia, I meandered through the crowded halls of my grandmother’s tiny casita in Puerto Vallarta, capturing the sights and sounds of our family home with shaky hands. In one room, there were my baby cousins, giggling feverishly as they spun a wooden top my grandfather had whittled for them. In another, two of my uncle’s furiously passionate Spanish blended into the bustling urban din as they argued over Club Deportivo’s latest roster changes. Finally, my crowning achievement, I catch a shot of my grandma smiling sadly as she hums the wistful melody to “Uno puno de tierra,” her favorite ranchera, before the battery runs out and cuts the feed. These early videography escapades captured the unfiltered life unfolding in the part of Puerto Vallarta hidden from the brochures and travelogs, and my summers spent there shaped my philosophy of film. To me, the Kurosawas, Coens, and Coppolas of the world are the people with the most experience serving, interacting with, and observing the people around them rather than those who have simply studied the most shot compositions or read the most scholarship. I’ve built my repository of this essential knowledge through my time in Puerto Vallarta and service endeavors. As the Vice President of my school’s Lion’s Heart chapter, I’ve accumulated nearly 300 service hours since 2020. Every person I serve teaches me something about the world I inhabit and our place in it. While teaching my young surfers, I’ve seen firsthand how their disabilities don’t and shouldn’t define them. Whenever I capture test footage for them, I’m careful to frame shots that allow my students to retain their agency: the looks on their faces as they see themselves catching waves with confidence and skill speaks volumes about the power and potential of cinema to tear down social stigmas. Similarly, when I’m handing out meals for the local homeless population, I’m forced to confront the harsh realities of our dysfunctional socioeconomic systems, a lesson only reinforced by my work in domestic violence shelters back in Mexico. In these spaces, suffering is endemic, woven into the human experience at its very core, and I’ve resolved to use my camera to critically examine the root societal causes of such suffering while making space for the people most affected to tell their own stories in their own voices. Taken together, my experiences have helped me code empathy into my films, what I believe is the secret ingredient to the cinematic magic and life itself. Every character and person I shoot is another entire history of victories, struggles, and lived experiences – whether I’m setting up a wide angle on a beaming child standing upright on his board for the first time or a close up of my weary grandma, it is my responsibility to frame their story with respect. By capturing these narratives in all of their complexity and peculiarities, I’m fostering connection, understanding, and authenticity.

I died for the first time before I was even born. Delivered with my mother’s umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, I suffocated in the birth canal. Doctors resuscitated me after nearly four minutes with no heart rate or brain activity. When I was revived, a part of my nervous system may have stayed on the other side. Psychologists and psychiatrists have attributed this to neural firing patterns that didn’t restart. Numbers are like hieroglyphics to me, constantly shifting and inverting. Sights, sounds, touch, and space are processed so differently that I sometimes wonder if I’m still human. Diagnosed with a slew of disorders; including ADHD, Math Learning Disorder, I spent much of my life in therapy—behavioral, occupational and vision—trying to rewire my mind’s buggy hardware. In first grade, I was the “weird” kid sitting on the “wiggle seat” in class. I hated those early years, filled with confusion, embarrassment, and a deep desire to fit in; overcoming challenges caused by my underdeveloped or damaged nervous system. Nothing seemed to work—until I found the ocean. One day, catching waves with my dad, something clicked. With salt stinging my eyes, wind whipping my hair, and water stretching to the horizon, I stopped fighting the sensory chaos and surrendered. The ocean became my refuge. I’d surf before and after school, sometimes staying long after sunset, listening to waves lap the sand. That peace inspired me to help others lost in their neural struggles. A few searches led me to Surf and Turf, a nonprofit using surfing as occupational therapy for special needs children. Each session is a chance to help kids connect with the ocean and draw strength from it. I guide them to ride waves and immerse themselves in the ocean’s sensations—the texture of sand, the salty air, the vast horizon. It’s transformative, empowering them to feel capable and confident. At school, I pursued my passion for surfing by joining the surf team and becoming captain by senior year. Balancing the sport with academics challenged my overstimulated brain, but with coping strategies and determination, I thrived. Capturing footage of my teammates surfing also sparked my love of videography, which I plan to hone while studying cinematography in college. Teaching young surfers has shown me that disabilities don’t define anyone. Whenever I capture footage for them, I frame shots to retain their agency. Seeing their confident faces as they watch themselves riding waves speaks volumes about cinema’s power to tear down stigmas. Similarly, handing out meals to the homeless or working in domestic violence shelters in Mexico has taught me how deeply suffering is woven into the human experience. These encounters have inspired me to use my camera to examine systemic issues critically while giving people space to tell their stories in their own voices. Taken together, these experiences have taught me the importance of empathy in my films. Every person I shoot represents a history of victories, struggles, and lived experiences. Whether capturing a beaming child standing on a surfboard for the first time or my weary grandma, it’s my responsibility to frame their stories with respect. By telling these narratives in all their complexity, I foster connection, understanding, and authenticity. These differences once felt like obstacles, but they’ve shaped my success. I’ve competed as a surfer in the world’s surf mecca, made a positive impact in my community, created award-winning films, and launched a sought-after production company—achievements I never imagined as the “weird” kid. Different doesn’t mean bad. It’s okay to be different. My life proves challenges can be overcome, and unconventional beginnings can lead to extraordinary success.

With tiny hands far too small to fit into the straps of my mom’s bulky Canon Vixia, I meandered through the crowded halls of my grandmother’s tiny casita in Puerto Vallarta, capturing the sights and sounds of our family home with shaky hands. In one room, there were my baby cousins, giggling feverishly as they spun a wooden top my grandfather had whittled for them. In another, two of my uncle’s furiously passionate Spanish blended into the bustling urban din as they argued over Club Deportivo’s latest roster changes. Finally, my crowning achievement, I catch a shot of my grandma smiling sadly as she hums the wistful melody to “Uno puno de tierra,” her favorite ranchera, before the battery runs out and cuts the feed. These early videography escapades captured the unfiltered life unfolding in the part of Puerto Vallarta hidden from the brochures and travelogs, and my summers spent there shaped my philosophy of film. To me, the Kurosawas, Coens, and Coppolas of the world are the people with the most experience serving, interacting with, and observing the people around them rather than those who have simply studied the most shot compositions or read the most scholarship. I’ve built my repository of this essential knowledge through my time in Puerto Vallarta and service endeavors. As the Vice President of my school’s Lion’s Heart chapter, I’ve accumulated nearly 300 service hours since 2020. Every person I serve teaches me something about the world I inhabit and our place in it. While teaching my young surfers, I’ve seen firsthand how their disabilities don’t and shouldn’t define them. Whenever I capture test footage for them, I’m careful to frame shots that allow my students to retain their agency: the looks on their faces as they see themselves catching waves with confidence and skill speaks volumes about the power and potential of cinema to tear down social stigmas. Similarly, when I’m handing out meals for the local homeless population, I’m forced to confront the harsh realities of our dysfunctional socioeconomic systems, a lesson only reinforced by my work in domestic violence shelters back in Mexico. In these spaces, suffering is endemic, woven into the human experience at its very core, and I’ve resolved to use my camera to critically examine the root societal causes of such suffering while making space for the people most affected to tell their own stories in their own voices. Taken together, my experiences have helped me code empathy into my films, what I believe is the secret ingredient to the cinematic magic and life itself. Every character and person I shoot is another entire history of victories, struggles, and lived experiences – whether I’m setting up a wide angle on a beaming child standing upright on his board for the first time or a close up of my weary grandma, it is my responsibility to frame their story with respect. By capturing these narratives in all of their complexity and peculiarities, I’m fostering connection, understanding, and authenticity.

I died for the first time before I was even born. Delivered with my mother’s umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, I suffocated in the birth canal. Doctors resuscitated me after nearly four minutes with no heart rate or brain activity. When I was revived, a part of my nervous system may have stayed on the other side. Psychologists and psychiatrists have attributed this to neural firing patterns that didn’t restart. Numbers are like hieroglyphics to me, constantly shifting and inverting. Shoelaces were an enigma until I was 12, twisting like snakes fleeing my grasp. Sights, sounds, touch, and space are processed so differently that I sometimes wonder if I’m still human. Diagnosed with Sensory Integration Dysfunction, Developmental Coordination Disorder, Visual Perception Disorder, ADHD, and Math Learning Disorder by age 2, I spent much of my life in therapy—behavioral, occupational, physical, and vision—trying to rewire my mind’s buggy hardware. In first grade, I was the “weird” kid sitting on the “wiggle seat” in class. I hated those early years, filled with confusion, embarrassment, and a deep desire to fit in. Much of my childhood was about overcoming challenges caused by my underdeveloped or damaged nervous system. Nothing seemed to work—until I found the ocean. One day, catching waves with my dad, something clicked. With salt stinging my eyes, wind whipping my hair, and water stretching to the horizon, I stopped fighting the sensory chaos and surrendered. I rolled with it, like a wave to shore. The ocean became my refuge. I’d surf before and after school, sometimes staying long after sunset, listening to waves lap the sand. That peace inspired me to help others lost in their neural struggles. A few searches led me to Surf and Turf, a nonprofit using surfing as occupational therapy for special needs children. Each session is a chance to help kids connect with the ocean and draw strength from it. I guide them to ride waves and immerse themselves in the ocean’s sensations—the texture of sand, the salty air, the vast horizon. It’s transformative, empowering them to feel capable and confident. At school, I pursued my passion for surfing by joining the D1 team and becoming captain by senior year. Balancing the sport with academics challenged my overstimulated brain, but with coping strategies and determination, I thrived. Capturing footage of my teammates surfing also sparked my love of videography. These differences once felt like obstacles, but they’ve shaped my success. I’ve competed as a surfer in the world’s surf mecca, made a positive impact in my community, created award-winning films, and launched a sought-after production company—achievements I never imagined as the “weird” kid. Different doesn’t mean bad. It’s okay to be different. My life proves challenges can be overcome, and unconventional beginnings can lead to extraordinary success.

With tiny hands far too small to fit into the straps of my mom’s bulky Canon Vixia, I meandered through the crowded halls of my grandmother’s tiny casita in Puerto Vallarta, capturing the sights and sounds of our family home with shaky hands. In one room, there were my baby cousins, giggling feverishly as they spun a wooden top my grandfather had whittled for them. In another, two of my uncle’s furiously passionate Spanish blended into the bustling urban din as they argued over Club Deportivo’s latest roster changes. Finally, my crowning achievement, I catch a shot of my grandma smiling sadly as she hums the wistful melody to “Uno puno de tierra,” her favorite ranchera, before the battery runs out and cuts the feed. These early videography escapades captured the unfiltered life unfolding in the part of Puerto Vallarta hidden from the brochures and travelogs, and my summers spent there shaped my philosophy of film. To me, the Kurosawas, Coens, and Coppolas of the world are the people with the most experience serving, interacting with, and observing the people around them rather than those who have simply studied the most shot compositions or read the most scholarship. I’ve built my repository of this essential knowledge through my time in Puerto Vallarta and service endeavors. As the Vice President of my school’s Lion’s Heart chapter, I’ve accumulated nearly 300 service hours since 2020. Every person I serve teaches me something about the world I inhabit and our place in it. While teaching my young surfers, I’ve seen firsthand how their disabilities don’t and shouldn’t define them. Whenever I capture test footage for them, I’m careful to frame shots that allow my students to retain their agency: the looks on their faces as they see themselves catching waves with confidence and skill speaks volumes about the power and potential of cinema to tear down social stigmas. Similarly, when I’m handing out meals for the local homeless population, I’m forced to confront the harsh realities of our dysfunctional socioeconomic systems, a lesson only reinforced by my work in domestic violence shelters back in Mexico. In these spaces, suffering is endemic, woven into the human experience at its very core, and I’ve resolved to use my camera to critically examine the root societal causes of such suffering while making space for the people most affected to tell their own stories in their own voices. Taken together, my experiences have helped me code empathy into my films, what I believe is the secret ingredient to the cinematic magic and life itself. Every character and person I shoot is another entire history of victories, struggles, and lived experiences – whether I’m setting up a wide angle on a beaming child standing upright on his board for the first time or a close up of my weary grandma, it is my responsibility to frame their story with respect. By capturing these narratives in all of their complexity and peculiarities, I’m fostering connection, understanding, and authenticity.