Turning My Pain into Purpose From a young age, I faced challenges that most children don’t fully understand, let alone talk about. At age three, I was not speaking. Many thought I was simply delayed, but in truth, I couldn’t hear clearly. My world was muffled. After several ear surgeries and time in the PALS program, I finally found my voice—but that was just the beginning of a long road. Soon after, I was diagnosed with ADHD and celiac disease. These conditions made it difficult to focus, communicate, and feel confident in school or social settings. I spent my academic years on a 504 Plan and often felt like I was running a race with weights tied to my legs. Despite my struggles, I always knew I wanted to make a difference. It wasn’t until I started learning more about mental health—through my own journey and those close to me—that I realized where my heart truly belonged: in the field of psychology. I chose this career path not only because of what I’ve been through, but because of how powerful it can be to have someone who listens, understands, and doesn’t judge. I know what it’s like to feel different, to feel like no one gets what you’re going through, and to still have to find a way to move forward. I want to be the person who walks with others through those hard moments and helps them see their strength when they can’t feel it themselves. My future goals are rooted in service and advocacy. I want to become a licensed mental health professional who specializes in working with individuals who have learning differences, chronic health conditions, and anxiety-related disorders. I also hope to serve underserved communities—especially those in the Latinx population—who often face language barriers, lack of access, or cultural stigma around mental health. I want to create a safe space where people feel heard, supported, and empowered to grow. Long term, I’d love to open a community-based mental health center that offers affordable, bilingual therapy and education for families. While I don’t yet have formal experience working in the mental health field professionally, I’ve spent a lifetime gaining personal insight and informal experience. I have supported friends and family members through depression, grief, and life transitions. I’ve also spent years learning to navigate my own mental health challenges, which has taught me patience, empathy, and resilience. These experiences have motivated me to study psychology, pursue internships in mental health support services, and eventually give back as a licensed therapist. Choosing this career isn’t just about what I want to do—it’s about who I am and what I’ve lived through. My struggles have taught me that healing is possible, but it often takes a helping hand. I want to be that hand for someone else.

Breaking Barriers, Healing Hearts When I was a young child, my world was quiet and confusing. I wasn’t talking at age three, not because I didn’t want to, but because I couldn’t hear properly. Muffled sounds were all I knew until I had several ear surgeries and entered the PALS program to learn how to communicate. Later, I was diagnosed with ADHD and celiac disease—conditions that made learning difficult and impacted my mental health throughout my childhood. These challenges could have stopped me in my tracks, but instead, they lit a fire inside me: a desire to help others who feel left out, misunderstood, or invisible—especially within my Latinx community. I come from a proud Latin heritage where strength is shown in hard work and sacrifice. My grandparents and many of my family members had little or no formal education, but they gave me the foundation of love and resilience that continues to carry me. At times, though, mental health was a topic we didn’t speak about—either because we didn’t have the words, or because we feared the stigma. I know I’m not alone in this experience. Many in our community silently suffer from anxiety, depression, trauma, and learning disorders, but never receive support because of language barriers, lack of access, or cultural misunderstanding. That’s why I want to pursue a career in psychology. I want to become a voice and a safe space for those in the Latinx community who feel they don’t have one. I want to provide culturally sensitive mental health care that honors where we come from while helping us grow stronger together. Representation matters. Our families deserve therapists who understand our traditions, our struggles, and our unspoken pain. They deserve professionals who speak their language—both literally and emotionally. Living with my own mental health challenges has taught me what empathy really means. I know what it feels like to be dismissed, to be labeled, or to feel “less than.” But I’ve also learned the power of listening, encouragement, and belief—tools that I hope to offer others as a future mental health professional. My motivation comes from within, but it’s also rooted in my culture, my family, and my hope for future generations of Latinx youth who won’t have to feel ashamed or alone. This isn’t just a career goal. It’s personal. I want to open doors that weren’t available to my grandparents or even to me growing up. I want to be part of a change that brings healing to our community—one conversation, one heart, and one mind at a time.

The Strength Behind My Struggles When I was three years old, I wasn’t speaking like other children. To most, it seemed like I was just quiet, but in reality, I couldn’t hear clearly—only muffled sounds. After several ear surgeries and time in the PALS program, I finally began to communicate. That was the beginning of my journey through challenges that would shape not only how I live, but who I am. Diagnosed with ADHD at an early age, my days in school were filled with distractions, frustrations, and setbacks. On top of that, I was also diagnosed with celiac disease at age four, which brought its own challenges—fatigue, brain fog, and emotional struggles that made focus even harder. I relied on a 504 Plan throughout my academic years to help level the playing field, but the reality is, no plan can take away the daily battles going on inside your own mind. Despite the accommodations, I often felt different, behind, and unsure of myself. Growing up with multiple diagnoses has deeply affected my mental health. I’ve battled low self-esteem, constant anxiety, and a lingering sense of inadequacy. I have very little confidence most days, and I still struggle to believe in myself. But what sets me apart is that I never give up. I push through the fear, the doubt, and the fatigue because I’ve learned that perseverance is just as important as intelligence or skill. My mental health journey hasn’t been easy, but it has given me something I never expected: purpose. I’ve learned how to advocate for myself, to speak up when I need help, and to support others who may feel alone in their struggles. That’s why I want to major in psychology. I know what it’s like to be misunderstood, to feel like you’re not “normal,” and to carry the weight of invisible battles. I want to be the person who listens without judgment, supports without hesitation, and helps others see their own strength—even when they can’t feel it yet. Living with ADHD, a speech delay, and celiac disease has shaped me into someone who is not only resilient but also compassionate. I’ve learned to face life one challenge at a time, knowing that progress isn’t always loud or obvious—but it’s still progress. I’m not perfect, and I still have hard days, but I’m proud of how far I’ve come. In the end, my mental health diagnoses have not defined me—they’ve refined me. They’ve given me a heart for helping others, a determination to keep going, and a dream worth fighting for. With the support of this scholarship, I hope to continue my education and become a psychologist who turns personal pain into powerful purpose.

“Mija, let God show you the way.” That’s what my grandmother always told me, with a voice full of quiet faith and strength. She and my grandfather migrated to the United States in 1971. They didn’t come with savings, degrees, or guarantees. They came with determination, hope, and a willingness to work for a better life. Their beginnings were incredibly humble. My grandparents washed dishes, sold chick gum, and offered all kinds of homemade items on the street to get by. They often slept on the floor in crowded rooms, and there were times when the only food on the table was tortillas and beans. Yet they never stopped believing that their sacrifices would create a better future for the generations to come. My grandfather eventually held down three jobs well into his 50s. My grandmother never held a traditional job, but her role was just as important—she was a full-time wife, mother, and the family’s unofficial Uber driver before the word even existed. Together, they raised a large, close-knit family rooted in faith, hard work, and humility. They taught us that success doesn’t come easily, but with God’s guidance and relentless effort, anything is possible. Those lessons became part of me. I grew up watching how my grandparents and parents made something out of almost nothing. I saw how they turned challenges into strength, and I knew early on that I carried a responsibility—not a burden, but a gift—to continue their legacy. As a first-generation, Mexican-American college student, I am not just reaching for my own goals—I’m carrying the dreams of those who paved the way. Navigating college hasn’t been easy. I had to figure out how to fill out FAFSA, register for classes, apply for scholarships, and balance school with work and family life, all without a guide. But each step has made me more resilient and more committed to finishing what my grandparents started. This journey isn’t just about earning a degree. It’s about breaking cycles and rewriting a family story once rooted in survival into one that thrives. It’s about becoming a role model for my younger siblings, cousins, and even my own future children. I want them to see that we are not limited by our beginnings—we are defined by our drive, our values, and the sacrifices of those who came before us. When I walk across that graduation stage, I won’t be walking alone. I’ll be carrying my grandparents’ courage, my parents’ work ethic, and my community’s prayers with me. My degree will not just hang on a wall—it will be a symbol of everything our family has endured and overcome. That’s why I’m passionate about being a first-generation, Mexican-American college graduate. Because this isn’t just my dream—it’s the fulfillment of a promise made by those who gave up everything so I could have a chance at something more.