My awkward thing has always been my coordination. It might sound funny now, but during my first year on varsity soccer, it felt like everyone noticed. Looking back at our games on the Veo recordings, I was constantly slipping, falling over, and looking completely out of control. My teammates, both older and younger, never let me forget it. They joked about it all season. What made it even harder was that I had earned a spot on a varsity program that had won the BCL Central League championship for eight straight years. The expectations were incredibly high. Every practice was competitive, every mistake stood out, and I felt like I had to prove I belonged on a team that had built a winning culture long before I arrived. I won’t pretend it didn’t bother me. It did. I hold myself to a high standard, so watching myself struggle while everyone else seemed comfortable was embarrassing. There were nights I went home thinking maybe I wasn’t cut out for that level. But instead of letting those moments define me, I used them as motivation. I stayed after practice, trained harder than before, and focused on improving every part of my game. I couldn’t suddenly become the most naturally coordinated player on the field, but I could become the hardest worker, the best teammate, and someone others could count on. Slowly, the falls became less frequent, my confidence grew, and I started earning my teammates’ trust. The following season, I was voted team captain. Ironically, things didn’t suddenly get easier. Injuries sidelined me throughout the year, and once again I found myself wondering if I was enough. Even then, I focused on leading my teammates, keeping our culture alive, and making the most of every opportunity I had. When the championship tournament arrived, everything came together. I scored two goals and had one assist in the final, helping us win another BCL Central League championship and continue the program’s winning tradition. I was also named the tournament’s Most Valuable Player. The best part wasn’t the award. It was realizing that nobody remembered the kid who couldn’t stay on his feet anymore. They remembered the teammate who refused to quit, the captain who led by example, and someone who earned his place through hard work. My coordination may have made me awkward, but it also taught me resilience. Sometimes the things people tease us for become the reason we grow the most.

My family's story starts with Honduran blood, sacrifice, and work that most people never see. My parents had me when they were still in their late teens, barely out of high school. They didn't get the luxury of planning everything out before becoming parents. They learned as they went, through responsibility, long hours, and the pressure of raising a family while trying to survive in a country that didn't always make space for them. For most of my life, I've watched my parents work multiple jobs and take on whatever they had to in order to keep our household running. Their journey has also been shaped by the uncertainty of TPS, Temporary Protected Status. When work permits became harder to access and their ability to work legally was threatened, my family had to adjust fast. My parents took big pay cuts and found other ways to bring in income. My dad bussed tables, washed cars, did whatever honest work he could find. None of it was glamorous. All of it had a purpose. One of the clearest examples of what my family gave up is my education. My father wanted me to attend a predominantly white private school and pursue the IB Diploma because he believed it would take me further than he was able to go. Even when tuition felt impossible, he still found a way to make it happen. We hustled together through work, savings and through scraping together extra income wherever we could. I learned early that education wasn't handed to me. It was something my family fought for. One moment still stays with me. I was working my front desk job when a woman started complaining about immigrants, saying they were living off her taxes. I stood there and stayed quiet. I didn't want to offend her, and I didn't want to risk my job. But inside, I was thinking about my parents. I was thinking about my dad washing cars, bussing tables, working long hours just to help pay for my education. I was thinking about how much immigrant families give, and how little credit they get for it. That moment made me more determined. I don't want to just prove people wrong for myself. I want to make them question the assumptions they carry about families like mine. I want to succeed in a way that honors my parents and brings pride to the community I come from. As I enter college at Cal Poly as a Business Administration student, I'm carrying my family's story with me. Education isn't just a personal opportunity to me. As I see it as a responsibility since my parents gave up things I'll never fully know about so I could have access to rooms they were never invited into, and I want to use that access wisely. Their work ethic built my resilience. Their sacrifices shaped my goals. Their journey taught me that success means bringing others with you, not just getting there yourself. I come from a family that has had to hustle, adjust, and keep going even when the system made it harder than it needed to be. That's the background I'm bringing into college and beyond. I want to build financial stability for my family, push back on the stigma placed on immigrant workers, and use my education to speak for people whose sacrifices too often go unnoticed.